Hereafter
by ZombieJazz
Summary: This is a series of O/S set after or inspired by episodes in S5 of Chicago PD. They are set within the Interesting Dynamics AU. There may occasionally be a stand-alone O/S set outside the TV season to continue the AU's story arc. This series is an exploration of what would happen with the AU's characters, if Erin left and stayed in NYC. It is a continuation of The Way From Here.
1. Reform

**Title: Hereafter**

 **Author: ZombieJazz**

 **Fandom: Chicago PD**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own them. Chicago PD and its characters belong to Dick Wolf. The character of Ethan has been created and developed for the sake of this AU series.**

 **Summary: This is a series of O/S set within the Interesting Dynamics AU (i.e. Hank has another teen-aged son, and Jay and Erin are engaged, Olive and his grandson came back to Chicago). The scenes are set after (and/or inspired by) episodes in S5 of Chicago PD. There may occasionally be a stand-alone O/S set outside the season to continue the storyline and character arcs established in the AU. This is an exploration of what would happen with the characters as defined in the AU, if Erin left. It is a continuation of The Way From Here.**

 **SPOILER ALERT: There are MAJOR spoilers in this collection from Interesting Dynamics, So This is Christmas, Scenes, Aftermath, So It Goes and The Way From Here (including chapters/scenes in So It Goes that have not yet been written or posted). This series also contains SPOILERS related to SEASON 5 of Chicago PD.**

 **THIS CHAPTER IS SET AFTER S05E01 - Reform. It will be reordered to be Chapter 1 later.**

He'd looked so broken – been so broken – on FaceTime. She could see it in his eyes. Their glassiness. His struggle to hold back the tears. But it wasn't just his eyes that worried her. It was the view they gave her into his entire being. Even from 800 miles away.

It was because she knew what he was going through. Even though she didn't. Because she hadn't been through the exact same thing. Because he wouldn't talk to her. He wouldn't tell her what was going on. Not that she needed him to tell her. She could still read the news – watch the news – in Chicago from New York City. Another miracle of the information age and the technology and the world wide web. The same things that had landed her as an investigator on an inter-jurisdictional case. One that struck too close to home. To her baby brother. To Teddy too. To Nadia. To her own past in a way. A past that could've become her future if things had gone just a little differently. A case that had her stuck based in another city – while hoping all over the country for interviews and research and meetings. And one that now let her use the same technology to see just how much Jay was hurting. Even when he was halfway across the country.

But she still needed him to talk to her. To say something. Because she knew what it was doing to him. She could see it in his face. She could hear it in his voice. She could see it radiating off him in front of the cameras that he never wanted to be in front of but had been tossed to by … the new CPD. The new order of things. That maybe she wasn't so upset to be distanced from. But it also meant she was distanced from Jay. When he needed her. And he did. Right then. Whether he was ready to admit that or not. To verbalize it. Because she could see that he was teetering. She could see that it was more than the case – that stray bullet, that little girl. There were other layers to it. Other losses. Previous actions. Memories. And he was triggering. He was trying so hard not to. But he was. And he wouldn't tell anyone. Not there. Except maybe at one of his meetings. If he brought himself to go.

But she wasn't sure he would. Not then. She wasn't sure if he was ready to admit just how much he needed help when he was that vulnerable. She wasn't sure that he was close enough to any of the guys in that room. She wasn't sure he'd talk to Will. Or Choi. Or Hank. Or call Mouse. Or Natalie … Or he'd go home. Alone. To the Xbox and the dark and a bottle. To nightmares. So he wouldn't sleep. Or he'd just stay in bed entirely. Or spend hours in the gym – pounding a punching bag. And hours more pounding the pavement. Until he could forget. But none of those methods had worked for him not really.

So there was the other possibility. That he'd snap. At someone at work. In the bullpen. Kim. Or Adam. Or maybe Upton if she pushed too hard. If she kept chipping at him in trying to connect with him in a way that was rubbing Jay all wrong. That he tried to be professional in his complaints to her about. But that Erin could hear the message behind them. That he was out of sync with his new partner. That he wasn't sure he trusted her to have his back yet. Or anyone else's. Because he wasn't sure she was a team player. Because it felt like she was always watching out for her own self-interests. Her own career. And she didn't see Intelligence as making her career. Not with the situation that unit was in anymore. But at the same time it was a line she wanted on her resume for whatever trajectory she seemed to think she was on. That she always was looking to say or do the right thing. To not rock the boat. To only tell the truth.

And as much as Jay respected that – as much as he felt he had nothing to hide, as much as he knew he was good police, as much as maybe he'd been the same way when he'd been brought onboard Intelligence and had to deal with 'Hank Voight' – he also wasn't sure how it fit into the present reality. Into the team and the partnership and his life and CPD. Because it felt like she was on the wrong side – even if she wasn't. He said. He'd tried to explain.

But Erin only knew as an outsider. She'd only worked with Upton on a few cases. And she looked at it as a woman too – trying to make it in an Old Boy's Club in a system that had flaws and in a city that was in its own kind of turmoil. And she knew it was hard terrain to navigate. That she'd had her own fuck ups. And she'd had Hank to pick her up and right her. To cover up and tell her lies for her. To a point. Until the wheels came off.

And even then, Erin wasn't sure what to make of it. Of her. Of any of it. Of how she felt. Or how she should allow herself to feel. Because this was Jay. Her partner. Her fiancée. She friend. And she wanted what was best for him. She wanted what was manageable for their future. She wanted to get to the future they'd talked about. She wasn't sure how much of a roadblock Upton might prove in them getting there. If they … if Jay … had to manage her with kid gloves. If he always had to be watching his back around her because he couldn't trust her to have it. If she couldn't distinguish the various grey areas of truth and telling the truth that existed when you were in an Intelligence unit. If she big undercover gig hadn't taught her that. But Erin did know that she didn't want Upton to be a stalling point in derailing them from the track her and Jay were still working on getting back on. Erin needed Jay on track. On his own track. With a job. His job. With his head on straight. With him functioning at home – so she had a come to go home to. So they had a home – a future – to build. Soon.

And maybe Jay losing patience with Upton or anyone else in the bullpen really should be the least of her worries. Because she knew his M.O. She knew him enough to know that even if he yelled at his friends … his colleagues … his co-workers … his partners … that the fall out should be – would be – minimal. It would be worse – it could be worse – if he snapped at someone in the cage. Or in the box. That he'd lose his temper. That he'd get in their face. Or worse. That chairs would get thrown. That walls would get hit. And that there would be blood. Not his. And that couldn't happen anymore either. They knew where that got them. Got her. And where he had the whole team now. Under their own surveillance. Cameras. And internal independent auditors. Talks of reform and federal oversight. Pushing them farther and farther into a smaller and smaller box of their own. To do the job. And to fail at it because of all these new rules and regulations. These changing goal posts that seemed to give the bad guys an advantage – the ones in blue and otherwise.

And Jay couldn't find himself in that situation. He needed the job. Sometimes she felt like he needed the job more than he needed her. And in her own ways, she could again understand. She did too. She'd grown up – she'd spent her adult life – around men who needed the job. For all different kinds for reasons. Right and wrong.

For Jay it was a lifeline. It was the lifeline he'd managed to grab a hold of after Afghanistan. After the Rangers. After war. After the loss of his mother. After a fractured childhood. Abuse, trauma, neglect – that she again was starting to understand from his perspective as he let her. Things – experiences – she could understand and relate to in her own way. When he let her. The job had been what saved him. Saved him from the dark place he was in. The hole. It'd given him a purpose. A direction. And now it'd become what buoyed him. It kept him afloat. Through good and bad. For the right reasons and the wrong reasons. And Erin knew however he was feeling right now – as he struggled to keep from floundering, to keep from drowning – that buoy couldn't be taken away from him. He couldn't let it go. He couldn't make a mistake that – couldn't succumb to anything – that might cause him to lose his grip on it. Because those life rings, they could be yanked away too quickly.

So she'd ordered him on a plane. She'd ordered him to get off his ass – and his ass-duty – and to take a few days to get his head on straight. Before he let it spin around too much. Before he went charging back into the job while he was like this. And he did something stupid. He lost his grip either at work or at home. Either way – alone. Because he wasn't letting anyone have his back. Not like before. He didn't trust anyone – like before. And that was her fault. She was part of that equation. That cascade of dominoes in his life … in her life … in their lives … that had gotten them … where they were.

He'd balked. But she'd pressed. She'd argued. And she'd watched his eyes grow glassier and glassier. She'd listened to him try to push her away. To pull away. Until he'd said he was fine. That he really needed to go. And he'd cut out on her. Like that. Like he did. Because despite the therapy and the counselling and the group sessions – he wasn't healed. And she'd slowly had to accept that he never would be. That his wounds and his baggage – it was part of the deal. Just like hers were for him. And she couldn't be angry with him for that. She couldn't punish him for that. She just … she had to be a different kind of girl … kind of woman … than she was with other men. In previously short-lived relationships. And she had to be patient. And she had to be kind. And sometimes she had to wait for him. And not just be the friend. Or the fuck buddy. She had to put in the hard work of the relationship. Of being the fiancée to a man with PTSD. To a man who wanted to be Type A and macho and dominant. And in as many ways as he was. He wasn't. Not with the people he cared about most. Not in the situations – with the people – where it mattered the most.

And she had to do all that now from long distance. For now. Because of her actions and choices. The ones that had made it harder for them. And for him. And for her whole family. Harder on herself. Because she needed him as much as he needed her. Even when they weren't ready to fully admit it. Not that way. Despite it being a known fact.

So she'd let him hang up on her. She made herself not be angry. Not be frustrated. Not let him win and leave him alone. To decide to stop reaching for him – to stop grabbing at him before he went down into that hole. That wasn't an option. Not when she was 800 miles away. Not when they had so much more they needed to work on. Together. When there was a light at the end of the tunnel. Even if it was dim. Even if it was taking longer than either of them wanted to get to. But they were working on it. They were slogging through the fucking sewers. And now wasn't the time to stop.

So she'd gone and booked the flight herself. She'd sent him the ticket. She'd texted him that she'd be expecting him. She told him that she loved him. And who he was. And that she'd be waiting.

And she'd left it at that. Even though she'd wanted to push harder. Even though she knew she could've gotten back on the line with him and turned it into an argument. That would've only further upset both of them.

And she was glad she hadn't done that. That she'd – they'd – taken a different route. Because he was at her door at just after midnight. Sagging and broken and even more glassy eyed than before.

And they hadn't spoken. Because she knew him. And she knew there were times – too many times – that he didn't want to talk at all. But they'd been through enough that she was learning too that if she gave him time and space – and let him be the man and let him be his own man – he talked to her. In his own way. When he was ready.

So she'd just taken his hand. She'd brought him inside. She'd closed the door. And she'd guided him to the bathroom. She'd turned on the shower as hot as she knew either of them could stand. Maybe a tad hotter. Until the room was just mist and steam.

And he'd just stood there. A crumbling statute. So she'd undressed him herself. Piece of clothing by piece of clothing. Until he was bare.

"Get in," she'd told him. Gently. Holding the curtain back for him. And he had. Leaving her to strip off her own clothes. To step in behind him as he stood under the steaming stream of water. His head bowed. His back to her.

She'd left him be. For a moment. Only long enough to lather the sponge. To run it down his shoulders. His back. But by then they were already shaking. His efforts to hold it all in failing. The dam breaking. And the flood trying to press itself out through the cracks it'd managed to find.

So Erin had taken his hand again. And she'd turned him toward her. Even though he still didn't want to look at her. As he tried to and tried not to all at the same time. Because he thought he wasn't the kind of man who cried. Or he thought she wasn't the kind of woman who tolerated a man who cried. That he somehow wasn't allowed to. Not by her or himself or society. That she couldn't handle it. Any of it. Not just the tears.

But she could. And she didn't care if he shed tears. She wanted him to. She needed him to have some sort of outlet. Because she knew that all those years of him just trying to hold everything in hadn't worked for him. And it hadn't worked for them – in their relationship. It wasn't the solution now. Even in their not ideal situation – that was the best they could do with the bad situation. The one she'd gotten them into. The one they'd gotten themselves into. Because they hadn't learned to communicate the way they should. To cry those tears. To have those talks. To be vulnerable and exposed and honest the way they needed to. But they were trying now. So hard. And harder because now it was all long distance as they mended the wounds and put in the hard work of getting through an engagement and planning a marriage that would actually work. If they could still actually make it work. And they'd both committed to trying. And sometimes that meant crying. And arguing. Fighting. And talking. And knowing when not to talk to. To be there. Even with the 800 miles between them. And knowing too when those 800 miles needed to be less – literally and figuratively.

So she pulled him to her. And he didn't resist. He didn't pull back. He didn't tense. He just wrapped his arms around her. He draped around her until his eyes were pressed somewhere against her head and against her shoulder. Until he hunched right around her as he shook. As he cried but they could pretend he wasn't. Hidden amidst the water droplets of the steaming hot water.

And they stood like that. They held each other. Crying. Until they couldn't trying anymore. Shaking until the shakes were shivers from the water running cold. And it was only then that they got out. That they dried themselves off. And they went to the bedroom.

That they lay there. Nude but covered. Skin-to-skin. Him on his back and staring at the ceiling. And her taking her turn to drape against him. To still try to comfort him. To feel him. While she looked at nothing. And her mind went a thousand miles an hour trying to figure out what to say and what to do and how to help. While she listened to his heart. Pounding slow and steady under her ear. When she knew that sleep wasn't likely to find either of them that night. In that bad and that apartment that felt so far away from home. In the now that felt so distanced from the reality she'd imagined for herself. But the reminder that it was all only temporary. That they just had to get through this. This bump and the next. And the never-ending bumps that she knew were ahead of them. But that they'd managed to keep moving past – one at a time. If they just kept going. Kept trying.

She lay there and she weighed what he was thinking. If he'd talk. Or if he wouldn't. If she should call in to work and take a day. Or two. If she left him alone would he stay in bed all day or sit in front of the TV all day trying to not think when she knew he'd be thinking. When he'd be playing things out over and over and laying the self-blame on thicker and thicker. Or if he'd find something for himself to do. If he'd designate some stupid handy-work job that he decided needed to get done around her apartment that didn't feel like her apartment. Chores and upgrades that she didn't feel necessary – because now was just temporary. It was just a stop until she got back on track. Until she got back to where she was supposed to be. Living the life she was supposed to live. But if he wanted to … put up poster frames or change out cupboard doors or put together a book shelf for her – she'd let him. She wrecked her brain trying to think of some job … some chore … she could assign him that would distract him. That would make him feel of use. That would give him a purpose. She tried to think of how the weekend should look. What he needed it to be. But there wasn't any point in trying to figure that out. Because she needed him to tell her that. To show her. And she needed to listen. For once. For now.

"A dead kid," he finally almost whispered from somewhere off in space. "That's what got us here."

And it was and it wasn't. The boy – the teen – she'd gunned down was different. It wasn't the same.

"We were both just doing our jobs," she said. "You didn't do anything wrong."

"Tell her that," Jay said. "Tell her mother."

She just gripped his shoulder. She held him tighter. Because she knew there wasn't anything she could say to that that would make it any better. She knew that kill shots were hard enough. When it was a child – it was different. So very, very different. And it didn't get better. Or easier. It changed you. It became a part of you. For the rest of your life. And it made you question this piece of yourself – who you were and what you were capable of and your worth and reason – from there on out too.

"It doesn't go away," he mumbled and muttered and whispered all at the same time.

"I know," Erin conceded.

"I feel …," he let out a long, shaky breath. And she reached to touch his face. His scruff. The other tell in where he was at. Where he'd been at in the preceding days. Where his head was at. How he was managing. How he was taking care of himself. The value he was placing in himself. "I feel like I'm back in Afghanistan. Only now there's her. And him … that hut. The breach. … Six years old. Now eight. She was just eight years old."

"Don't do that to yourself," she urged.

His next breath was even shakier. His hand went up. It pressed against his eyes and then his forehead. The heel staying there. Like he had a splitting headache. A migraine that just wouldn't let up. And he liked did. It's own kind of ache and presence. That just never did let up. That was something Erin could understand too.

"I don't know how much longer I can do this job," he muttered.

"You just need some time to get past this," she offered weakly. Even though she – they both – knew that it wasn't something you really got past. Ever.

"Mouse was right," he said and gazed down at her. "He was on to something. He saw it. He felt it. Knew it before I did. That … this job … it's all just fucking grey areas. I don't know who's the good guys and the bad guys anymore. I don't even know if I'm the good guy."

"You are the good guy," she pressed at him. "You're good police, Jay."

He shook his head. "I don't feel like it. Not anymore. Not lately. It all just feels … fucking grey. And now we're … we aren't even allowed to do the job. We're just … pawns. Pawns on these fucking bureaucrats chess board. Moving us around to serve their purpose. Sacrificing us when it suits their needs. And how the fuck do you do the job in a situation like that?"

"You keep doing it the same way you always have," she said.

"That doesn't work anymore," he snapped her. His head lifting off the pillow. His eyes drilling into her until they glassed and softened and his head fell back down and he stared at the ceiling again. "I did the job. And I killed a little girl. Doing my job. Working on our Intelligence. In our city. In a neighborhood that we should've known. It was … a fucking scenario I should've seen. I should've anticipated that."

"Jay, it was a stray bullet," she said. "In pursuit. While you were being shot at."

His head just shook again and his hand went back up to press his heel harder into his eye.

"Sometimes it feels like nothing makes sense anymore," he said. "Nothing feels right."

She held him tighter. "It's because you don't feel right."

"Am I ever going to …"

And as much as it was a statement she heard the question in his voice. The plea that he'd put out to her. Flatly and quietly. In a way only a practiced ear could hear. But she'd heard.

"With time," she said.

"That's … it's like you saying again, that you just keep wanting to believe, that everything is behind," he said. "Behind me. In the past. And it's not."

"That's not what I mean," Erin said and lifted her head to look down at him. "I meant … I mean … you've got to keep working at it. We've got to keep working at it."

He made a shaky sound – a near gurgle – and gazed up at her. Those sad eyes setting on her. "I don't think I should be here right now."

"This is exactly where you should be right now, Jay," she pressed at him. "And, whatever it is – that you're feeling – I can handle it. We can handle it together."

"I don't know even what that means anymore," he whispered. "I don't know where to start. Or how to do it. And … I feel like … that's what I'm supposed to be figuring out now. In Chicago. Alone."

"You aren't alone, Jay," she told him. Her own eyes brimming again too.

"I don't know," he muttered and reached to pull her closer. To hold her. To cling to her. And she let him. She let herself settle. Though she could feel the shaky in his chest and she knew he must feel the tremor in hers.

"There's this drug," he whispered through the long silence. The one that hung there so heavily. "For PTSD. For soldiers. For veterans. It's supposed to do something to your memories. How you … the body … processes them. To … help you forget."

That hung there for a long time too. Because she didn't know what to say. "That … sounds scary too …," she finally managed.

"Yea …," he pressed out slowly. Like there was a brick sitting on his throat. "But sometimes … I don't know how to keep remembering."

And she lay against him. She could feel the catch in his chest. She could feel – without looking – that he had tears streaming silently down his cheeks. And she knew he could feel her own tears pooling against his chest. She gripped at his bicep. She clung to him too.

"Then let me help you remember," she whispered against him. "Because there's so many things I don't want you to forget."

Too many good to lose. The good man. The good cop. The good times. She'd take all the bad. She'd carry it for him. As much as he let her. If it meant there would still be the good in him. For him. For them.

 **AUTHOR NOTE:**

 **Couple questions on generally when this would be set in the AU. The Way From Here is set in June. So this would generally follow the season (i.e. September, October, November, etc.). I know the season said that there was supposed to be a "time jump" ahead six months. But I didn't really feel that. Maybe a month or two — but not six. So this would be set beginning approximately four months after the S4 finale (i.e. assuming it ended in May-ish) and approximately three-four months after The Way From Here (or five-six months after Erin left to work with the FBI — she's now in the job she was exploring in The Way From Here).**

 **And, yes, there might be some fluff chapters/scenes (i.e. Hank being Papa or Hank being dad to Ethan or Jay and Ethan, etc.) outside of being something inspired by an episode outcome (i.e. maybe you'll get a Papa and Henry — and maybe Ethan — carving pumpkins). But these chapters/scenes will be much shorter than what you're accustomed to out of me and will likely be much more dialogue driven than I normally do for the prose that is FF. However, these sorts of chapters/scenes won't likely be the norm.**

 **Thanks for your feedback, reviews and comments. And continued readership.**


	2. The Thing About Heroes

**Title: Hereafter**

 **Author: ZombieJazz**

 **Fandom: Chicago PD**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own them. Chicago PD and its characters belong to Dick Wolf. The character of Ethan has been created and developed for the sake of this AU series.**

 **Summary: This is a series of O/S set within the Interesting Dynamics AU (i.e. Hank has another teen-aged son, and Jay and Erin are engaged, Olive and his grandson came back to Chicago). The scenes are set after (and/or inspired by) episodes in S5 of Chicago PD. There may occasionally be a stand-alone O/S set outside the season to continue the storyline and character arcs established in the AU. This is an exploration of what would happen with the characters as defined in the AU, if Erin left. It is a continuation of The Way From Here.**

 **SPOILER ALERT: There are MAJOR spoilers in this collection from Interesting Dynamics, So This is Christmas, Scenes, Aftermath, So It Goes and The Way From Here (including chapters/scenes in So It Goes that have not yet been written or posted). This series also contains SPOILERS related to SEASON 5 of Chicago PD.**

 **THIS CHAPTER IS SET AFTER S05E02 - The Thing About Heroes. It will be reordered later.**

Hank let out a little sigh as he got in the door. Just an exhale of everything that'd been going on. That was over and done. But not. Because these types of things never really wrapped. They were never really said and done. And there sure was a family sitting at home that night that was just at the very start of none of this being said and done. Dealing with a whole new playing field of their own. Trying to figure out how to navigate the unnavigable.

Hank had been there. Still was there in a lot of ways. But he had a whole lot better idea of how to navigate these things than the Tomas. Came at it from whole different angles. Different backgrounds. A lifetime of different experiences. Felt for them. Really did.

He stooped slightly as he stepped inside. Preparing for the reality that the mutt would be there. And he was. Bear always was the first at him whenever he came in the door. Supposed it was nice to still have someone happy that he was home. Or more likely the damn dog just wanted try to play him as a fool. Try to get some extra food and an extra walk out of him.

Might get his way that night. Could use a bit of extra time to right his head. Clear his head. Night air and a mile or two with the dog might do that. Wasn't as much of a cure all as those years in the Social Club. Or cigarettes, gin, whiskey, boxed wine and shooting the shit with the jagoffs in there. But it was having to do these days. Some kind of compromise. As good as it got. Life was a lot of as good as it got anymore. Way you had to look at it.

He scrubbed between the mutt's ears. Got off his boots and jacket. Nudged by the damn dog. Go check on the other pain-in-the-ass he had at home that apparently didn't feel the need to be right under his foot as soon as he stepped in the door that night. Not that E really came charging at him most nights anymore anyway. Kid was pretty settled into his own routine and maintaining his own space.

Still, had to leave in the middle of the night. Have Magoo up and transported to Olive's at all hours. Sometimes it'd be nice if he'd be a bit more excited about seeing him come in the door still. But supposed it was good he wasn't. Signs of independence. Of the kid growing up. Technically that was the objective.

E gave him the smallest glance as he came into the front room. Bit of a look to it. An underlying tone.

"You're really late," E provided. Kid usually stated the obvious. Didn't mince words. Or know when to shut up. And since the summer – this rollercoaster or fucking journey they were on now – the kid really just didn't care. Filter use was even less than discretionary. Gone to the wind.

"Sorry, Kiddo," Hank provided. "Something popped off." That earned a bit of a glance. A softening. "Had to go downtown. Deal with some stuff at the Ivory Tower."

His kid scrutinized him a bit. Still always hard to tell how much he was seeing anymore. Especially under those Coke bottle specs of his. Looked like he'd been pulled right out of the 1950s. But in a whole lot of ways, Hank thought his boy likely would've fit in and fared a bit better back then. Maybe would've fared better as a '90s kid at least. Still boggled his mind – pissed him off – what a different kind of world his youngest was growing up in compared to what he'd had to carouse his older two through during their teens a decade or so before.

Times had changed. Kids had changed. Society had fucking changed. Technology had changed. And then there was just the reality that Magoo was a real different kid than J or Erin. Very different issues. And growing up in a very different family. Maybe he'd had to become a very different parent in a whole lot of ways too.

Especially now. Now with a kid sitting there looking somewhere between a cancer patient and an AIDS patient from the 1980s. Just … this pale, emancipated stick of a boy. Tuffs of hair. Strange place they were in right now. Knowing what was to come. What they'd have to wade their way through. The kind of end game they'd eventually be facing. The potential hiccups that could lead to devastation a long the way. But not having any real timeline on the how or when. The just needing to take it day by day.

And E just faced that with this kind of quiet normalcy. Just kept playing the hand he'd been dealt without any real complaints. This other quiet reminder of just what strength was. And Hank wasn't sure he'd taught E that. His kid had just been … born with that. He'd grown into it. Because he'd had to. His boy did what he had to do.

Funny Denny spouting shit at him that he knew nothing about. Funny how quick you could forget the job and the codes of the job and the people on the job after they put you in a different color shirt and tie and sat you behind a desk. Gave you some kind of false power and an even falser mandate. How you got all high and mighty sitting up there in the clouds in that Ivory Tower. Gazing down on the rest of them while you lived in a false fucking reality.

Us and them. And there were a whole lot of categories that those two groupings seemed to apply to. Would've been real interested to see how all this had played out if it'd been fucking neo-Nazis marching in Chicago and blowing shit up in a black community. A black street festival. If it'd been a white copper involved at the go. Didn't doubt that it would've played differently.

Just like there was the fucking transparent reality of the unspoken reasons that Denny Woods had been made the public face of Chicago PD's supposed independent audit. The one being run by a veteran cop with a past. Internally. From offices in the Ivory Tower. But he was a black man. Gave a whole new spin to the P.R. optics for when something like this happened. When they went after Muslim officers. And white cops.

Hank wasn't sure that race or religion defined good cop or bad cop. Or fucking grey cop. Knew a whole lot of people from a whole lot of different backgrounds who'd been on the job for a whole lot of different reasons and had done the job in a whole lot of different ways. But Chicago and race – it was complicated. Always had been. And had also been political for as long as he could remember too.

Wished that politics didn't have to come into play so much when it came to protecting his city. The people in it. Wasn't too interested in having to think or reflect on any of it too much.

Supposed he was even less interested in thinking about any of it too much these days. Getting too involved. Not with what he had going on at home. He just wanted to be able to do his fucking job. And since heading back – with Magoo out of the woods and back in school – hadn't really felt like he'd been allowed to do his job. Been a whole lot of managing personalities. Navigating a new idiotic system. Learning the new rules. And how to break them – to meet his needs. The needs he needed to do the fucking job. Wished he didn't have to waste time figuring that shit out. Just slowed everything down.

Denny slowed everything down. Whatever fucking bee in his bonnet he had. Just seemed to be buzzing more and more. Could see him slowly taking aim. Moving in for the sting. At least it was visible. Meant he could work on figuring out how to miss that trajectory of his too. But seemed like he was having to listen to a lot of his bullshit in the process. Supposed that happened when you'd somehow looked horns. Having to smell his breath way too much. Guy was a stinker.

He just didn't get it. This talk at him about knowing when to run. That that somehow ensured survival. Said a lot about Denny. A man on his third wife. All 'hot, young things'. The kind of way he spoke about women. Humps that made his eyes roll back like a slot machine. One after another. And all sorts in-between. Though, he'd managed to avoid kids. Or at least any that he was going to own up to and acknowledge. Said something about his notion of responsibilities too. Wasn't sure that was the kind of man you wanted figuring out and managing the public face of CPD with the release of information.

Whole M.O. just drove up that Denny had a life of running. Hank didn't run. He couldn't run. And he didn't need to. He had a lot less to hide than Denny thought. And he sure didn't feel he had much he felt the need to hide. Live and die by your decisions. Your morals. Your code. Your fucking gut.

And your responsibilities.

Hank had responsibilities. More than Denny would ever be able to understand. Or live up to. Because he wasn't a father. He wasn't a single father. He didn't have a sick kid. He didn't have a dead kid and a grandkid growing up without a father. Didn't get to go through his mid-life and later knowing that he was likely going to outlive both his sons. And his wife. And that all just went against the laws of nature.

But you still didn't run. You stood your ground. You faced it head on. You waited. For the time. Your time. The right time. To make your move. Or to just see what fucking came. What you could control and what you couldn't. And understanding that.

E understood that. Fourteen and E understood that. Better than most grown men it seemed. Hank thought Frank Toma had understood that too. And gave his life for it too. That was the thing about heroes.

And the longer Hank had with his boy the more he understood that Ethan was his own special kind of hero. Wasn't going to get a cape or shield or gun. But was going to go down in some sort of blazing glory. Because he'd shown strength. He'd stood his strong. He hadn't run. He'd waited it out.

And maybe Hank had had a hand in teaching him that. Maybe it'd help them both – them all – get through. And maybe they'd get through a lot longer than they thought. Or what the doctors thought in their wishy-washy medical what-if variables.

This drug. The fucking AIDS medication. The one that had left his son without an appetite and tremoring worse than usual and dealing with nausea and his hair little more than puppy puff. But it'd also worked at reprogramming some of this plaques and lesions in his kid. Slowing things down. E's pain was better. His balance and the neuropathy seemed a bit better. His breathing was better. The swelling in his lymph nodes and glands had gone down. His urinary and bowel functions – his brain's communication with them … it seemed better. His kid didn't seem like he was in as much of an incoherent fog all the time. He communicated better. He didn't seem as overwhelming fatigued. And there'd been some improvement in his vision. At least it hadn't gotten worse. It was a slow improvement toward whatever his new normal was going to be. And maybe when they got to that new normal – if this repurposing of the drug – kept doing what the medical researchers thought it could do, maybe they'd be waiting things out a long time.

And Hank was okay with that. He was okay with waiting. As long as he had too. This case – he'd just keep waiting. Rest of his life. That was the hope. As long as they could.

"Are you going to have to go into work again tonight?" E asked him.

Hank gave his head a little shake and thread the iPad out of his kid's hands, giving it a look as he sat down. He gave his kid a small smile with a grunt at what was on the screen.

"This doesn't look like homework, Magoo," he said.

And whatever piss-off E had at him about the night before – about him being later than expected that night – faded. His boy was against him on the couch, gazing at the screen too – as much as he could. And Hank put his arm around him. He let himself accept it. Enjoy it. Because he'd learned that as much as you hugged your kids, it wasn't enough. And there reached a point with your sons where they stopped hugging back. That you got lucky if they offered you a handshake. And there'd been so long where E had ached so bad so often that his son would cringe at him so much as touching him. That E cringed at so many people touching him now for other reasons.

And that was more that Denny wouldn't understand. That he wasn't going to ever understand. Or let himself understand.

That he'd never have a collection of moments in his life where he'd had to make choices about pulling the plug. One choice that meant his one son had awoken from a coma. The other choice – allowing the sign off on that choice – meaning his other son had slipped away. Knowing that there might be another point in the future where he'd be tasked with making that call again.

Denny wouldn't know what it was like to have that kind of conversation with a fourteen year old kid. Your kid. To hear them form arguments and opinions. To listen to their wants and needs. And he wouldn't get that having those sort of thoughts – opinions, the ability to make a plan – made for heroes too.

Denny wasn't going to know what it was like to still have your fourteen year old knock on your bedroom door some nights when he wasn't doing so great. Mentally, physically or emotionally. Whatever it was. And there was the unspoken reality in the kid's request to sleep in your room that night that he was asking because there was a part of him that felt like – however irrationally – it might be near the end. That something might happen to him that night. And you'd had to make a promise to your little boy that when that did happen he wouldn't be alone. That you'd be there. So you let your fourteen year old kid get into bed next to you and still held him while he cried or while he didn't. Until he managed to find sleep. Even though you didn't. And you knew you probably wouldn't much ever again.

But that it was moments like that that just reminded him again that for as many times – and in as many ways – as he fell off the pedestal Magoo had set him on as a father, he was still some kind of hero to his kid. Whatever that meant. Because that wasn't the way he saw himself. Because Hank was much more comfortable labelling his boy as a hero than he was ever trying to be a hero to anyone or a hero of anything.

An antihero. Maybe. But maybe those were more interesting. Maybe that was something Magoo knew already at fourteen too. Thought it was something that Toma had learned too. Maybe too late. But maybe there was some kind of peace in that too.

"Brickotber, Dad," E said to him.

"Mmm …," he grunted and looked at the $120, 2000 piece Lego set on the screen. "Doesn't look like it's on sale."

"But we could do it together," E muttered at him.

And Hank allowed a small smile into his son's fleecy crown. Because that was the other thing about E. He just never gave up. Vision decreased to the point that right now he had the 'legally blind' label when he didn't have the corrective lens on for all they corrected. Hands shaking. But Lego, woodworking, soldering, circuitry, his videogames. He kept trying. Don't tell Ethan he couldn't do something. It only meant he was going to do it. And do it harder and better than you. Even if it took him longer.

A two thousand piece Lego set? They'd be working on it for months. But it'd get done.

"Christmas is coming up," Hank offered.

E rubbed his cheek against his chest for a moment. "I could use my allowance," he said.

Hank grunted. "Could," he allowed. But hit the home button, calling up the kid's school portal to take a look at what'd he'd missed the past couple days. What homework was waiting for his boy to get to. More likely waiting for when his boy got into his tutor and E.A. over at RIC.

"I vacuumed," E offered at the screen change. He'd picked up on that. "And swept."

"Good man," Hank provided.

But there was more to it then that. He was a good man. A better man than a lot of the men Hank knew. Pretty sure his son would grow into a better man than him too. If the world decided to let his son get that far.

Hank allowed a little grunt. "Did some homework," he muttered.

The cheek moved against his chest. "Erin helped," E said. "Kept me company."

That earned a small smile too. The ideal that Erin was working at carving out in their un-ideal situation. Been a lot of nights so far that school year that he'd gotten on the webcam with E and stared at him while he did his homework. Time difference made it a bit easier for her. Helped him as much as she could. Had set up some sort of screen-sharing or remote computer access deal so she could help him along. Spend time with him. Keep trying.

He had good kids. Really good kids. Despite their fuck ups and problems – he had good kids. And that wasn't something you ran away from. Wasn't something you wanted to run away from. That's the sort of thing you stuck around for. They were the sort of things that ensured your survival in ways that Denny would never understand either.

"How's your sister?" he asked, skimming through some of the notes that had landed in E's calendar. Only paid any of them so much heed these days.

"She seemed busy and tired," Magoo said. "She said she's working on trying to get something done so she doesn't have to work on it or be getting calls about it when she's home on the weekend."

Hank allowed a little grunt. Erin – investigator in the D.A.'s office, getting to work bureaucrat hours in some ways, or at least get bureaucrat and Justice department holidays. Had Columbus Day off. Had decided to come back to the city. Whole lot of good reasons to do that. At her house – not sitting here staring at him and Magoo. But knew that was the underlying plan. That she was checking in on them. Because of the date coming up. J's birthday.

But there wasn't much to say about that. E hadn't said anything about it. Beyond putting in his request that they have wings and they make pie. Or some facsimile of it. Would.

Outside of that there hadn't been much chatter. Though, he knew his boy would be aware of it. Knew he'd be thinking about it. Hank was. But was another thing he wasn't about to run from.

He put down the iPad and looked at his son. Looked at his hands. They were shaking.

"You take your meds?" he asked.

E nodded. "They aren't working today."

Hank grunted and glanced at his watch. "You try to do your injection with them shaking like that?"

E shook his head. So he grunted again and extracted himself out from under boy's weight. A little reluctantly. For both of them. He headed to the kitchen. Bear clicked after him and by the time he'd pulled the injection bottle out of the fridge, he'd heard his son righting himself off the couch too and his crutches following.

Hank readied the syringe and the alcohol swab. E was already by his side, the side shirt pulled up and waiting for the swipe and the jab. The momentarily cringe that painted across E's face. But never a complaint out of his mouth about that daily prick either.

"Guess we need to get something in your stomach for the next dose," he said as he disposed of the sharp. The fucking off-label med they were getting into his system twice a day. With food that E had no interest in.

And he had no interest in now. As usual. Because he just shrugged. "I'm not really hungry."

And Hank just gazed at his son. Because the 'you need to eat, you're going to eat' was a repeated conversation they didn't need to have. He'd just put the food in front of him. His boy. So little and so grown-up. When you have that at home there isn't a realm of what you want to do or what you can do. There is just fucking do. And you keep fighting tooth and nail to do it. Off the chain.

He was living that way again. In different ways. At home and work. But Denny wouldn't understand that either.

But Hank did. And maybe that was the thing about heroes. The ones that didn't wear the cape. And didn't want the title. They understood. They picked their battles. And they waited for the right ones. Fighting them endlessly and with no holds barred. The big and the mundane. The exception and the day-to-day.

 **AUTHOR NOTE: Snitch was added the other day. It's been reordered. The chapters are ordered in the order of the episode they as an OS off.**

 **Your reviews, comments and feedback are appreciated.**


	3. Snitch

**Title: Hereafter**

 **Author: ZombieJazz**

 **Fandom: Chicago PD**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own them. Chicago PD and its characters belong to Dick Wolf. The character of Ethan has been created and developed for the sake of this AU series.**

 **Summary: This is a series of O/S set within the Interesting Dynamics AU (i.e. Hank has another teen-aged son, and Jay and Erin are engaged, Olive and his grandson came back to Chicago). The scenes are set after (and/or inspired by) episodes in S5 of Chicago PD. There may occasionally be a stand-alone O/S set outside the season to continue the storyline and character arcs established in the AU. This is an exploration of what would happen with the characters as defined in the AU, if Erin left. It is a continuation of The Way From Here.**

 **SPOILER ALERT: There are MAJOR spoilers in this collection from Interesting Dynamics, So This is Christmas, Scenes, Aftermath, So It Goes and The Way From Here (including chapters/scenes in So It Goes that have not yet been written or posted). This series also contains SPOILERS related to SEASON 5 of Chicago PD.**

 **THIS CHAPTER IS SET AFTER S05E04 - Snitch. It will be reordered later.**

Hank lounged back in his chair and just stared at Denny. No comment. No reaction. Because that's exactly what Denny was looking for. Sitting there drinking his good whisky – the kind you needed for capping off cases like this. And looking at the only framed photo he had on his desk. Only framed photo he had in his whole damn office beyond the one up on the wall. His pop. Still giving him the eye. And every one else who came into the goddamn office. Watching over him – and everyone else – some. Keeping him in line. Small reminder to check himself. Make sure he was doing right. That he was being the kind of cop his father was. Or would've hoped his son would've become. Back then. In a different kind of Chicago.

That photo that Denny had his fat fingers on was supposed to do about the same. In a different way. A break in a long standing rule of his. No photos of his family in the bullpen. Not the living ones. Not his kids. Didn't need the kind of riffraff that came through catching a glimpse of them. Sure didn't need to put them on display for the assholes of the world. The ones that turned your loved ones into some sort of liability. A fucking bargaining chip to be used against you. And those assholes – weren't always the people you pulled off the street. Whole lot of them wore the blue. Had the badges. Planted their asses in his office for all kinds of reasons that didn't root out of them being hauled upstairs in handcuffs. Knew for a fact that one of the assholes was sitting in front of him right that moment.

And Denny knew it too. Denny knew his policy re: pictures. Knew that he'd gone through most of his career without a photo in his wallet. No family patriot that got sent out with the Christmas cards. No kid's school day photos. None of his kids in their caps and gowns in Ignatius' colors. Because he'd toted even then – in Gangs – that having that sort of thing on your person when dealing with C.I.s, when drifting in and out of U.C. assignments, when working the streets and dealing with all kinds of other assholes was just putting your weaknesses on display. Promoting your liabilities. Didn't need to be doing that.

Not that it'd made much difference in the end. The end then or the end now. People found out what they wanted to find out. Could only fly under the radar so much. Could only ask your family to live in secret so much. Could only have so much secret and smarts around you. Could only be home to protect them so much. And that wasn't 24/7. Not on the job.

And he hadn't been there. And he hadn't seen in coming. Not when the assholes got Camille. Not when the next wave of assholes got Justin. Not when Bunny fucking showed up again and again until she got what she wanted. An impulsion that even seventeen years of parenting his girl had been able to stop in its tracks. Because she was a cancer. One that Erin consistently refused to treat. To just cut out of her life. One that he couldn't just cut out for her. Not when partners, co-workers, colleagues, young kids on his team got killed on the job. Not when their families got hurt in the process. Caught in the fucking wake.

You could only do so much.

And that reality just seemed to be hitting him more and more in waves these days. That's why that picture was there. That extra reminder. Because he'd lost too much. He'd changed again. He'd had to. Loss does that to you. Dealing with fucking bullshit on multiple levels did that to you. When it worked to suffocate you from all angles. When it sat there in a big bloated balloon waiting to burst right then.

So let Denny look. There wasn't much to see for the casual onlooker. That'd been purposeful. Wouldn't say much to those that caught a glimpse beyond leaving the suggestion that he had two kids in his life in some capacity. Most wouldn't even get that much of a glimpse. Because Denny had taken it upon himself to pick it right up. To stare at the backs of Ethan and Henry that were caught in the photo.

Denny – or anyone else – didn't need to know anything else about that picture. Wasn't going to provided any more details either.

Didn't need to know it'd been taken in a brief period Erin had gotten home at the end of that summer. That fucking summer of fucking hell – again – for his family. For his youngest. And a little spot of light in trying to give E some stability and normalcy before tossing into the uncertainty and instability and utter lack of normalcy for whatever the fuck his high school career was going to look like. Whatever the fuck his future held.

That it was up at Halstead's cabin. A fucking whirlwind trip. But the sort of weekend away - when they all really fucking needed a weekend away – that family's were supposed to make time for. The kind of weekend away that Camille would've wanted – fucking demanded – he make time for. Before he got back to work. Before E was back in school. In high school. Officially a teen. Even if he might not get much farther than his teens. Even if his high school career wasn't going to look too normal – or much like high school. Even if his sickly kid sure didn't look like he was fourteen yet. But still the kind of time you were supposed to grasp onto with your kids before it was gone. Before they were grown up and sick of you – pushing you away. Because that happened too fucking quickly.

Denny didn't need to know that the whole time they'd been there they'd just been down at the water. Fishing. Fishing. And more fishing. And they hadn't caught shit. But that sure hadn't pulled Magoo or H away from the water. Though, Denny could likely discern that it was the back of two kids with fishing lines. That maybe he'd even make out that E was working – near blind – to get the little toddler pole baited for H. That Denny might even remember that Camille liked getting out on the water. Maybe he'd find somewhere in him an inkling to recognize just how much his wife would've liked that pic. That she would've wanted it for her desk too. And she would've wanted to be there even more.

Denny didn't need to know it'd been Olive who'd snapped the shot. Didn't need to know that the girl had discovered a real talent for photography since Henry was on the scene. That Camille would've loved that even more. The fucking house would be more lined with picture frames than it already was. That she fucking wouldn't be able to pick which ones she wanted printed off. She would've just demanded the whole damn set of everything Olive snapped.

And that was fine enough. Hank was building enough of his own collection. Because she took a hell of a lot better photos than him. And he was so fucking aware anymore how fucking fleeting it all was. Life. Family. Your kids. These fucking moments. There and gone. Before you knew it. Before it ever should be.

So did more than just accept the photographs. Asked for them. And encouraged her in exploring all this photography stuff more. Watched H so she could take a class. Tell her that she might be on to a real racket. Especially living in the fucking Millennial, young professional, young family, lots of dogs gentrification condo-ville she was based at. Get a few of them to buy your services and go all by word of mouth from there. Do a few baby shots, dog shots, Christmas card shots, engagement shoot crap and just go from there. Could be a real side income for her. Better hours and better cash than all the part-time bullshit she was pulling in these days to support her son – his grandson – to get herself through school. And, fucking knew, even after she wrapped that up, a medical aide, physical therapist, paraprofessional was only going to be pulling in so much dough. This could really help her. Her Henry. Give there some real leeway in living the kind of life she wanted. For herself. For her son – his grandson.

And maybe he wasn't super great at giving encouragement to his boys. Or hadn't been in quite the right way with Justin. He seemed to know – have figured it out at least a bit – when it came to girls. To young women. Not that they were easy either. But sometimes he thought he had a better handle on it. But Denny didn't need to know any of that either. Just an added liability.

Instead, Hank just kept his mouth shut. Let Denny play the little game that was getting old. Intimidation that Hank only found so intimidating. Just a fucking waste of time. But let Denny puff his chest some. Drink the whisky. Look at the photo. And wait out this little show.

"I remember a time when you balked at personal effects in the workplace," Denny finally put to him. Still just sipping on that whisky. Still just staring at the photo of his son and grandson.

Hank just grunted. Took his own slow sip and leaned back more in his chair. Denny had opted for the obvious opening move. Not much of a move. Just a statement of the obvious. But Hank was learning that that seemed to be Denny. Transparent as fuck. Could see what was coming. And he was waiting.

Denny flashed the photo frame at him. "That your youngest?" he asked. His grubby finger smearing a greasy finger print all over the pristine glass.

"Yea," Hank smacked.

Denny made a mild sound of interest. But the guy didn't give a shit. They both knew that. "How old is he now?"

"Fourteen," Hank answered. Even though he knew they both knew that answer. Denny would only be bringing it up now – as a liability. One he'd thought he'd found. But he hadn't.

Denny made a little nod. "High school?" he asked.

"Yea," Hank acknowledged.

He turned the photo back to him to look at. "You still sending your kids to that … what was it … fancy private school?"

Hank smacked again. Another staged question. Clearly. "Ignatius," he gravelled.

Denny made a face. Faked impression. Only Denny wasn't impressed. It was condensation. And Hank didn't give a fuck. Because his kids going to St. Ignatius never had anything to do with impressing anyone. Wasn't ever the reason they'd gone there. And sure wasn't the fucking reason he was keeping Ethan there now.

"Don't know how you afford that," Denny remarked, staring at the photo.

"Suppose that's the thing about losing a spouse, Denny," Hank rasped. "End up with some cash to spend on things they would've wanted for their kids."

Denny allowed a little laugh at that. Like there was something funny about it. Just shook his head and gazed at the picture again. But got a look on his face.

"I've heard that about him," he said, tapping that fucking finger on the glass again. "That he looks a lot like Camille."

Hank just grunted. That didn't require any kind of response. Sure as fuck wasn't going to give him one.

He shook his head. Just staring at Magoo's back in that shot. "She was a looker," he said and cast Hank a look. Now it was Denny who was fishing. For a reaction. All he got was a smack. "Still don't know how you managed to get your hooks into a woman like that." And he gave a look – a shake and a movement of the eyes – that if it was seventeen years ago, if they'd still been partners, or the same rank and they weren't sitting here playing this fucking little game while he was having to hold together a unit of still young cops, a friend on the verge and a family at home that was in as much disarray, he would've fucking hit him. And then some.

"Told you before, Denny," he put flatly. "Know when to fight my battles. And how to fight them. Hunker down. Wait."

"Always the romantic," Denny said and stared at the photo. "I guess it must be real hard, Hank, really hard for you to look at this boy knowing all those outlaw moves you pulled in the Gang Unit, and just where that got you."

Hank folded his hands. "Don't look at it quite that way."

"Mmm …," Denny acknowledged and took another slow sip. Still looking at the picture. "Other thing I hear about him … Ethan, isn't it?"

Hank just grunted. More fucking games.

"That he's a little retarded after the …" and he pointed his fat finger at his head that time. Like he had a brain in it. Truth was that E had more brains that this fucking jagoff these days.

"Sure you hear a lot of things sitting behind that desk of yours these days, Denny," Hank smacked.

Got a coy grin. A minor touché. But more of a warning. The finger moved to his grandson.

"And this … you've got a grandson now, don't you?" Denny put to him. It wasn't a question. Again.

"Henry," he provided. Might as well hurry this up. "Two now."

More surprised face. Awful poker player. Hank wouldn't mind taking him for all he was worth. And he would. Eventually. Just had to bide his time. They'd get there. He'd survived the job – the city, fucking life – this long. It sure was fuck wasn't going to be Denny Woods who'd bring him down. Not now.

Denny shook his head again. More fakery. Mock sorrow. Sympathy. "Really too bad about Justin," he said and shot him a look. Finally moved to set that frame down. "Suppose you're having to support him now too. Henry."

Hank leaned forward and adjusted the frame. Put it back where it was supposed to be. Because Denny had rather purposely made sure to put it no where near where he'd picked it up from. Just looking for another reaction. A move. And Hank gave it to him that time. Because when it came to his family – things got put in place the where they were supposed to go. Where they needed to be. Within his reach and his ability. That was just the way it all fucking needed to be anymore. And Denny might be trying to make that a whole lot more difficult for him. But wasn't going to stop Hank from working at making sure things were set in a row the way they needed to be.

Different now. Real fucking different. A whole lot had been striped from him. Didn't have Erin there being the angel on his shoulder. Keeping him checked quite as much. The whole environment he'd walked back into after taking the time off for E was different. An obstacle course. Denny fancied himself the game master. Hank didn't have time for games. Not after what the job – the city, the bureaucrats, the fucking elite and the fucking assholes – had done to his family. Was still doing to his family. At work and home. To all the families in his city. Changed things. That spring – that summer – had flipped it all on its head again. And had to go at it a different way. The leash was off. The chain was out. And he didn't mind flailing it around. Catching whoever and whatever he needed to in the process. The way he needed to. Just needed to do the job a little differently. Wasn't going to run from it.

"Takes a village," he provided.

"Sure," Denny said. "Must be a pretty good deal for the baby mama too."

And Hank gave a smack. Directed his eyes at him. And sipped. "Don't think anyone looks at it quite that way either, Denny."

Denny took his own sip. Looking at him over the top of his tumbler and then making a smacking sound of his own as he looked into the bit left in the glass.

"That's good, Hank," he said. Looked at him like he was expecting – felt like he deserved – another finger or two ending up in that glass. But he didn't. Hank didn't budge that time. Just kept his place. Kept his eyes. "You always knew how to get your hands on the good stuff, didn't you? Women. Whisky. Kielbasa." He let out a guffaw and Hank just took another sip. "Boxed wine."

Hank smacked at him. "Do my grocery run on Sunday, Denny, if you want to give me a list."

Guy just grinned at him. "You're still living over in the Little Village, aren't you, Hank?"

He grunted.

"Same damn house, aren't you?" he laughed harder. And Hank just smacked at him again. "And still haven't looked at a damn woman since Camille, have you?"

Hank smacked again.

Denny shook his head. "Must be hard for you, Hank. Isn't it? Good ol'boy, dinosaur like you? Living there now. All these fucking condos, luxury townhouses popping up all around you? But your girl … Erin? Lindsay. She was living in one of those damn things before she went and got you … well, look at where she's got you." He smiled at Hank. "Really must've grated at you."

Hank sat back. "Assuming you're working at getting to a point, Denny."

"Careful, Hank," he warned, sitting a little straighter. "It's always better to co-operate upfront. When it's just between two old friends."

Hank shrugged at him. "Happy to co-operate, Denny. Just not sure what you're shooting at here."

"Tofu chicken," Denny started counting off on his fingers. "Chinese medicine. Twitter."

"Still not sure where you're going with this, Denny," he said. "But I'm intrigued."

"I am just listing a few things that I'm guessing you think are ridiculous."

Hank allowed him another shrug. "So far, so go."

Denny nodded. "I got one more for you."

Hank grunted and held at his tumbler. Twisted it. Could see more clearly where this was headed. Just took a long time to get there.

"Police reform."

Hank just sat there. Stared at him. No point in giving him another reaction. No point in having any fucking conversation with Denny about any of this. If there was a need for police reform, though, Denny was on the list of those that needed the reforming. Not the one who should be overseeing it. Fucking evaluating it. But leave it to the Ivory Tower to fuck it up that much. To just add to the whole situation. Needed to tear down that tower before there was any kind of real reform. Corruption started at the top. They created the manure field that let the rest of it grow out of it.

"I don't think we want things to get contentious between us, Hank, do we?" Denny put to him.

Hank gave him a shake of a head and shrug. "Don't think we need that," he allowed. Fallacy. Because Denny was already doing his best to make it contentious.

"We don't," Denny said, leaning forward into his desk space. "You don't. Not with that sick boy you've got in that fancy private school. A little grandson."

Hank gave him a little smack. "Denny—"

"Lieutenant," Denny said.

Hank kept his eyes. "Lieutenant. Maybe we'll just forget you said that. As an internal, independent auditor. Or my old friend. Because coming at my family. That might make things more contentious."

And it just made him smile more. "Now, I know you sure seem pretty good on the money end. But I bet you sure wouldn't want to be doing anything that might … impact any future cash flow of yours."

And Hank just smacked at him again and sat back. Because the guy had just made his bed. He was going to have to sleep in it. If that had been the move he'd wanted to make – Denny had clearly misjudged things. Thought he could provoke something. Or that Hank would be too stupid to cover his tracks. But had made those mistakes in the past. Knew this time around didn't have a clean-up squad. Too many things were dependent on the steps and choices he made. He'd make them. But he was patient. Raising three kids did that. You just had to wait it out. There was always an opportunity. When you understood the system. That was the bigger challenge right now. Adapting to the new system. But he'd done it before and he'd do it again. This wasn't a fucking checkmate, no matter what Denny's smug look said.

"You ever read a book called 'The Prince'?" Denny put to him.

And Hank smacked again. Denny always played him for the fool. Funny in that the guy never got it just highlighted him as the actual fool. Denny always thought he was the smartest in the room. Sort of amazing that it'd gotten him that far. But that said something about the system too.

"Written by a cat called Machiavelli. Back in the 1500s," he said.

Hank allowed a noise. Interesting choice. More fucking telling about just who and what Denny thought he was. Fucking jagoff. Of the worst sort. But Hank just frowned at him. Let him think that the reference he was about to make was lost on him. Play the dumb cop. Role Denny wanted him to play. And happy to do it – because it was more likely to open up the opportunities he needed to kick this asshole out of his life. Or set him up for his own fall. Real easy.

Figured Denny wasn't as familiar with the work as he thought. Or at least had missed the chapter on criminal virtue. Too bad. Because seemed like it should be what Denny was reading from. That conquests by "criminal virtue" are ones in which the new prince secures his power through cruel, immoral deeds, such as the execution of rivals. Seemed like about the kind of playbook Denny was priming himself for.

But maybe he'd missed that Machiavelli advises that a prince should carefully calculate all the wicked deeds he needs to do to secure his power, and then execute them all in one stroke, such that he need not commit any more wickedness for the rest of his reign. Little too late for that with Denny. Seemed like he'd jumped ahead and was just hoping that all his subjects would forget his cruel deeds. He was believing that his reputation could still recover. That it already had. But Hank hadn't forgotten. Whole lot of others in the city – and CPD – who hadn't yet either. Who wouldn't.

So maybe Denny should take some heed. Because princes – of their own making, of CPD or otherwise - who went about ruling in the way he was failed. Their problems mushroomed. They just kept up with the wicked deeds throughout their reign. And they continuously marred their reputations and alienated their people. Kind of like what he was doing right now in this little horse and pony show he was putting on in trying to exert his power. Exert his reign.

"Haven't read that one," Hank said. Meant as a statement directed right at Denny. But not intoned as such. And Denny didn't pick it up. Just kept running with his little simile.

"Well, me either," Denny said. No shit, Sherlock. Doubt he'd read that one either. "But there's one hell of a quite in that book."

Not just one. "Yea." Also not a question. But Denny heard it the way he wanted to again.

"Yeah. Goes a little something like, if you aim at the king, you better make damn sure you kill his ass."

Hank grunted some acknowledgement. "Yea. I am familiar with that one," he said. In a much more literate – and accurate contextual - fashion. "But the thing is, Denny, I never took aim at you. You only think I did."

Previously. Would've preferred to keep it that way.

"I'm pretty sure that's what lawyers would call a 'distinction without a difference'," Denny said.

And fair enough. Because the distinction here was that Denny had just taken aim at him. Repeatedly. And the difference now was that it was not just at him. It was at his boy. His grandchild. And that sure as fuck changed things.

Distinction with a difference. Pretty sure that set up Denny's downfall all on his own. Fucking dominos starting to fall now. Just didn't think the guy realized it yet. Too far up on his high horse to see. But he would.

And Hank would be waiting for it when it happened. His survival depended on it.

 **AUTHOR NOTE: This didn't write exactly the way I hoped. But there you go. I ended up pulling some stuff from a chapter I planned for The Way From Here into here.**

 **Feedback, reviews and comments are appreciated.**

 **And on a side note … I'm pretty sure Papa would've gotten stuck carving a Paw Patrol pumpkin (or a raptor). And that Henry would've been a Blue and Eth would've taken him around the street as Dr. Alan Grant (because he's much cooler to a paleontology geek than Chris Pratt's character …).**


	4. Home

**Title: Hereafter**

 **Author: ZombieJazz**

 **Fandom: Chicago PD**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own them. Chicago PD and its characters belong to Dick Wolf. The character of Ethan has been created and developed for the sake of this AU series.**

 **Summary: This is a series of O/S set within the Interesting Dynamics AU (i.e. Hank has another teen-aged son, and Jay and Erin are engaged, Olive and his grandson came back to Chicago). The scenes are set after (and/or inspired by) episodes in S5 of Chicago PD. There may occasionally be a stand-alone O/S set outside the season to continue the storyline and character arcs established in the AU. This is an exploration of what would happen with the characters as defined in the AU, if Erin left. It is a continuation of The Way From Here.**

 **SPOILER ALERT: There are MAJOR spoilers in this collection from Interesting Dynamics, So This is Christmas, Scenes, Aftermath, So It Goes and The Way From Here (including chapters/scenes in So It Goes that have not yet been written or posted). This series also contains SPOILERS related to SEASON 5 of Chicago PD.**

 **THIS CHAPTER IS SET AFTER S05E05 - Home.**

Voight glanced up from the paperwork at the slight wrap on his office door. Halstead was lurking. Body language emanating. Could tell the guy was feeling the case. All were. Ones with kids did that to you. Harder than the rest. Worse than the rest. A different beast. Different beasts you ended up dealing with. Different beast you had to become to close the case.

Knew that wasn't something Halstead was all that comfortable with yet. Maybe he never would be. Wasn't that kind of man. Different man in his own right. But give it time. Give the job time. Give the guy time. Wait until he was a father. That just made the cases with kids harder.

"Not roistered this weekend," Halstead put to him. "Not on-call."

"Mmm," Voight allowed.

"Was thinking of hopping on a plane Friday night, if it looks like things will be okay here."

It was more of a question than a statement. A measured one. Voight could hear it in the guy's voice. A request. Couldn't tell if he was looking for a way out or exactly which way out he was looking for. But that was up to Halstead to work out on his own.

"Sure," Voight shrugged.

Halstead allowed a little nod. But just kept loitering. Standing there in his doorway. Until he took all of half a step inside. Uninvited.

Halstead gave the slightest glance back over his shoulder. Measured what was left in the bullpen. Not much. Told everyone to get the hell out of there. After cases like this you had to. Everyone needed to go and get their heads on straight. If you could manage that in a night. To come back and do it all again tomorrow.

Needed to get his own head on straight. This one had hit him. Seemed like they all were lately. Since getting back in the office. Back on the job. Since CPD pushed his girl out for being good police. Since the fucking Ivory Tower put him in the impossible position for Erin or Intelligence. Protect one – his – or protect them all. Since fucking little assholes touched his little boy and now fucking more animals were still looking at him on sites like they'd had to go onto in this fucking case. And he got to go home to just a fraction of a reminder of what all this kind of shit did to people. That they never healed. Never recovered. Pretty sure he had a walking reminder of that staring him in the face right now too. And the image of all those kids' faces from the case – from the take down – too.

"I was looking at the flights," Halstead floated again. "I should be able to get a decent deal. Was thinking of maybe taking Eth this time …?"

Voight allowed a little smack at that. Loaded request in a whole lot of ways. Life. Family. Work. Chicago. All just was a bit of a land mine field anymore. Still working at figuring out the lay of the land. So they didn't all go fucking exploding. Or imploding. Same for Halstead. Same for Erin. New fucking terrain.

Gave a little shrug, though. Glanced at his phone. Had vibrated a couple times as he tried to plough through this paperwork. So he could get out of there. Go deal with other things. Getting his own head on straight before getting home. Getting a chance to get a drink or two in before he had to head home. To block out some of what he'd seen – again – the past few days. What it'd brought out in him. The reminders of who and what he was. And the kind of fucking world he lived in.

Wasn't sure that would happen, though. As fucking usual. Anymore. E was pinging him. Work. Home. Job. Team. Family. Role model. Protector. Cop. Man. All just fucking blurred into a bit of a bloody mess. Be easier some days if it could all just be righted with a fucking bloody mess. But that wasn't the way the world worked.

"You'll have to ask him," Voight gravelled and tilted the phone up to examine the messages from Magoo. Nothing urgent. Just the kid wondering where he was. When he'd be home. Reasonable questions. But just a few on the list of E's never-ending questions. Needs. Demands. Anymore. Didn't fucking get easier. "Think he's got plans."

"Really?" Halstead sounded genuinely surprised. Surprised that he was giving the green-light to E travelling out of state. Or surprised that the kid actually had plans. Could be either.

"Mmm …," he allowed and keyed in a response to E before setting the phone back down. "RIC Halloween thing. Flicks at the pier. Fireworks."

Halstead allowed his own little nod at that. "Right …," he acknowledged. "Eth. Fireworks."

Voight just grunted. Summed it up well enough. Could add some layers to it. That E had been doing the begging thing about that fucking stupid show back on. Stranger Things or some shit? Wanting to have Eva over to binge through the thing. Let him manage the puppy love with the Netflix and Chill crap of a non-sleepover sleepover – by the time they finished watching the thing. That her dad or brother showed up to get her. Sometimes it was just better – safer – to let the girl stay. Add to her fighting chances in the city anymore. Do his part that way. Or just depend on her some to help E out with his homework. Though any of that only mattered so much anymore.

Could tell him that Olive had already asked about if him and E wanted to go out to the pumpkin patch with her and his grandkid. Color drive. Family time. Get to help H out with the carving. Likely E too. Though E would do a decent job at trying to take his hand off before he asked for his help. And Voight would likely let him. Because he had to. Let the kid learn his bounds and limits. And push them. Not just live within them.

Fucking … the pumpkin patch. Almost laughable after the kind of week it'd been. So fucking mundane. The blindness of the fucking middle class. But sometimes being seen – having a visible presence – out in the community was the best defence against the things they'd dealt with that week. Let them know you're watching. That you're there. That they can only fucking operate under the radar so long. And then there was the other level to it. That after cases like that – you had to have something to go home to. Maybe you're a more fucked up, angry shell of the person you were. Maybe even more so with each case. Each year on the job. But having something to go home to – reason to go home – at least made you some kind of level. Helped you maintain – or create or force on yourself – the illusion of normalcy a little bit better. And needed that. Right now. To get his head back on straight. To keep watch. To wait it all out a bit longer. So an afternoon in the pumpkin patch with his kid and grandkid and dealing with pumpkin goop and baking – more likely burning – seeds … and teaching the boys about knife handling … sounded … decent enough to him.

Supposed he could remind Halstead that it was last weekend of Brickober too. That the whole Lego thing that Halstead had drilled into his kid had his son aware of that this year. That Halstead hadn't gotten him out to any of the weekend events at it yet. Because of life and work and family. Him going out New York way would mean he'd miss the last. When E had been on about it. On about it more since he'd clued into it being the big sale weekend of the event. The start of the fucking Christmas crunch and marketing. And E had in his head that he was about to dump his allowance dough on the Saturn V. Fucking 2,000 pieces of Lego that he seemed to think he could get put together in a single weekend.

And it was fine. Voight could take the kid. Even though it meant E would be there when Voight did his own nosing around to see if there was anything worth dropping case on that year for under the tree or in the stocking. But doubted it. E was starting to age out of it – beyond the fucking ridiculous ones. And forget the price tag – it was the ones that had more pieces than any kid with a fucking tremor and dexterity issues, half blind should be taking on. But that was E. Did anyway. Don't tell that kid he couldn't do something. Say he can't and it just becomes what he was going to do. Prove you wrong over and over again. So for that reason Voight wouldn't be opposed to babysitting E through the Saturn V either.

Though, he could think of other things he'd prefer to do with his time at home. But also knew – cases like this just driving home the reminder – that time with his boy was limited. Take it while it was there. While the kid wanted it. While it was available to both of them.

"I mean, me and Erin could take him to some Halloween … something in New York," he said.

And Voight just grunted. Because he was sure they could. Knew that Erin had pretty much taken over in the Halloween department since Camille had been gone. But always a bit of a half-assed effort. Store bought costume. Take him up and down the street around dinner. E had pretty much aged out of all that too. Just wanted the scary movies (that the kid still couldn't handle to well) and to hang out with his friends. Eat junk. As much as he was allowed to. Though, E was a good uncle. For a kid his age. Had been open to doing the kiddie stuff – participating – when Olive asked. For H. Supposed they both had. Because the front of the house sure looked more like Hank still had a little kid at home. Again. Or it at least looked like he still had a wife at home. To do those things. Make the holiday a little something for the kids. Or the block. Maybe doing that for the street was enough. For the little ones still there. For the young families. Maybe keeping up those appearances – having those kinds of interactions – counted for a lot after these kinds of cases too.

"Ask him," Voight said. "See what he wants to do."

Simple as that. Though, Voight supposed there was a part of him that hoped that E stuck with Plan A. That he'd have his kid home that weekend. That bit of stability – reason for it – in his life. But knew it was possible the kid would jump at Plan B. A trip. A flight. Time with his sister. Getting out from under dad's surveillance. Get spoiled a bit by Erin. And Halstead. Supposed too that meant Voight could go to his Plan B. The Social Club. A case of beer. A box of wine. A bottle of whisky. Wasn't the best plan, though. But sometimes numbing it out had to count for something too.

Maybe for Halstead too. Rather him be numbing it out with Erin than something else. Could keep each other in check. Could work at spinning each other's heads back around a bit. For operating the mine field.

"You talking to her this week?" Voight asked the guy.

Usually didn't. Let Halstead navigate the whole if and when they talked about … all that. Usually preferred not to do it at work anyway. And Voight was just as happy to keep out of it for the most part. That part of it anyway. Their relationship. Their business. Family, daughter aspect. Slightly different story. Though, these kinds of cases too. Got him thinking of her. Thinking of Teddy. Other choices and mistakes that had been made in the past. Other outcomes that could've happened. Some that did.

Halstead gave another glance back into the bullpen. Still not much going on out there. But he still took a step farther into the office.

"Not much," he allowed. "She's been busy with the file she's got right now. And this case …"

Voight grunted at that. Picked up his phone again to look at the least vibration. Erin's ears must've been burning. Or Halstead had already run by her the idea of Magoo getting on a plane with him that weekend. She was just giving it a little nudge. Keyed in the same thing he'd been saying to Halstead. Ask E.

But that was abut the most contact he'd had with her all week. He'd been busy. She'd been busy. Half a country between them both. Grown daughter. Could only keep so many tabs on them. And sometimes you just needed to cut the apron strings. Let them be. Sometimes it was better that way. Even when it wasn't.

"I was told to ask about the parent-teacher conference," Halstead ventured and made a dismissive gesture at their surroundings. "I didn't want to ask here."

"Hmm …," Voight grunted.

Of the contact he did have with Erin that week, he had seen a text from her stewing about that. But not really worth her stewing about. Not much she could do about any of it where she was at. It was part of the trade-off in the deal that'd been made. The arrangement worked out. Might just be temporary. But for the moment – not worth her getting worked up about certain things about E. her getting all distracted by that would just make the whole process of her doing her work and getting the job done the right way take that much longer. Would only mean it'd take her that much longer to get back to Chicago. For her to ride E's ass all she wanted about school. And anything else. For all the good it was worth.

Halstead looked at him. Like he expected more. But do the whole Thumper thing on that one. Don't got nothing good to say, might as well not say anything at all. Sometimes less said a whole lot more than going into some kind of explanation about it. E and school. Academically. Wasn't going to be a rosy picture. Just rehashing the same old. Waste of breathe.

"And the follow-up," Halstead tried. "The new medication?"

Voight grunted and gave him his eyes again at that. "Liver's holding up. Oddity in his red blood cells. Take him back in for a week. Just to draw some more blood. Might have to decrease the dose for a while."

Halstead allowed a nod. Followed by a contemplation of the floor. A long one. But then looked at him again.

"Those photos. Of Eth. We're never going to get all of them," Halstead said.

Voight grunted and sat back in his chair.

"And with The Dark Web …" the guy shook his head.

Voight smacked, twisted his hands a bit. Gripped his knuckles. Only way to keep from … punching something. "Got people watching for them," he allowed. "Deal with it as they pop up."

Halstead looked at him. Gazed at him really. Read him. Unspoken truths. Acknowledgements.

"I thought after this case," he finally said, "you might want … a couple days without Eth around. To deal with …"

Voight looked right back at him. For just as long. But shook his head. "Cases like this, Jay," he said. "It's the ones where I need him around even more."

And he picked up the phone again. It vibrated again. E again. Ready for pick up. Wanting him home. Wanting time. And presence. Whether that was a role model or his dad or just company. Didn't really matter.

He'd done the rehoming thing. In his own way. With all his kids. With J. With E. With Erin. Had good intentions with all of them. Seemed like the best option. What made the most sense. But in each case. Never had really worked.

Not for the kids. Not for him.

Didn't need that lesson again. Even for a weekend.

So he gathered his things. He shoved his phone in his pocket. He pulled on his coat. And he looked at Halstead.

"Going home," he said. "You should too."

Halstead just looked at him. The guy and his way of always trying to read between the lines. Looking for more. Measuring his response. Made him a good cop. But still let all that paint across his face. Gave him away. Too many tells.

So Voight just gave him a punch against the shoulder. Guy recoiled just a bit. Still. So changed the fist to a palm slap, a brief bicep squeeze as he walked by. As he gestured for him to get the hell out of his office so he could lock the door.

"Food will be on the table at 1900," he provided.

Because kids — people, grown fucking men — needed a place to go home to. So they could keep doing the job. With their head on straight. The next day.

"Fridge needs beer," he said. Because sometimes a purpose — any purpose — made any of it easier too.


	5. Fallen

**Title: Hereafter**

 **Author: ZombieJazz**

 **Fandom: Chicago PD**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own them. Chicago PD and its characters belong to Dick Wolf. The character of Ethan has been created and developed for the sake of this AU series.**

 **Summary: This is a series of O/S set within the Interesting Dynamics AU (i.e. Hank has another teen-aged son, and Jay and Erin are engaged, Olive and his grandson came back to Chicago). The scenes are set after (and/or inspired by) episodes in S5 of Chicago PD. There may occasionally be a stand-alone O/S set outside the season to continue the storyline and character arcs established in the AU. This is an exploration of what would happen with the characters as defined in the AU, if Erin left. It is a continuation of The Way From Here.**

 **SPOILER ALERT: There are MAJOR spoilers in this collection from Interesting Dynamics, So This is Christmas, Scenes, Aftermath, So It Goes and The Way From Here (including chapters/scenes in So It Goes that have not yet been written or posted). This series also contains SPOILERS related to SEASON 5 of Chicago PD.**

 **THIS CHAPTER IS SET AFTER S05E06 - Fallen. It will be reordered later.**

Hank gave the bedroom door a glance as he heard his son's labored gait come to a stop and he could feel himself being stared at. Confirmed he was being stared at. But went back to working on getting his cuffs buttoned. Into the white shirt twice in a week. That didn't happen much anymore. Mixed feelings on putting on the get-up. There was honor to it. He still felt. Still felt that it meant something. Still respected the position. The job. The sacrifices he made to be in that uniform. But also wasn't sure he'd ever feel entirely comfortable in the white shirt. Blue was always more of his color.

"Puppy dog look doesn't work on me, Magoo," he put to his boy as he twisted his wrists in front of the mirror. "Know that."

E just shuffled his feet some and stared at him a bit more. "It's always weird when you have to dress like that," E told him.

Hank grunted. He agreed. To a point. "It pays the bills," he provided. More complicated than that. But E knew that too. When you were a cop – cop family – it was a bit of an ongoing combination you had to have with your kids from birth. Just to make that family dynamic more complicated.

"It's for a funeral …," E muttered. "This time."

Hank allowed another little grunt. A little nod. But settled on grabbing his tie. Moving and sitting on the bed. Looking his boy in the eye.

"You're the tie expert," he said to his son. "Help your old man out."

E stared at him. Even more than before. But took the invitation to come into the room. Hank took the opportunity to get the thing around the back of his neck. Up under the collar.

"So which side's got to be longer?" he played quiz-time with his boy.

More times than not, it was him giving his boy instruction on getting himself hung for Ignatius. Though, E had figured out that he saved himself some time and frustration by just leaving the thing knotted. Not that Hank let him do that too many days in a row. Didn't need to get the damn things all creased and needing pressing. Cost too fucking much to by wrecking them. Even the fucking school had to go and change the fucking design every couple years as it was. And had too many different designs for different bullshit days as it was. Apparently you needed a different tie for mass than you could wear sitting on your ass in a classroom. Or on these damn spirit days. And all of them needed to look different by the time they were seniors in high school. If E got that far.

But supposed tying a tie was a life skill a man should know. Something you're supposed to teach your son. Though, he didn't know how many ties E would ever be knotting in his future. And sure doubted that E would be doing it too much from this angle. They usually did this in the mirror. Hank hanging over his shoulder with instruction.

But it didn't seem to have Ethan fazed yet.

"That one," he said, pointing to the wide one.

Hank grunted some affirmation and adjusted it a bit. Then he backed off. He let his son's shaking hands lift and work on the knot. Gave him a couple more grunts of approval in the first steps.

"Mmm …," he allowed. "Just …" He reached and helped his son get it looped and tucked the right away. A little backward and a little creased. But different way of looking at it for the kid. And E … he just tremored anymore. Couldn't seem to calm it. "Yep …" he acknowledged again as E right it a bit himself. But then Ethan struggled some to get it back through the loop and pulled down. "Here …" Hank offered and thread the fabric out of his son's hand. Pulled it through himself and then dropped his hand. He let E tug the knot up a bit. Let him try to. "Good man," he provided when E seemed to be satisfied with the job.

"It's a little crocked, I think," E told him.

Hank grunted again and again rose and went back to the mirror. Straightened it a bit as he tugged it all the way up and got it into place.

"Did a good job," he assured his son. Because anymore with the kid – it was the little victories. The little life lessons. Just letting him be of use. Letting him do and learn normal things. Letting him be himself – be a kid and be human – as much as he could. To not treat him any different. As much as he could.

But he glanced at E in the mirror. The kid still standing by the bed and staring at him.

"Don't need the Pout-Pout Fish tonight, E," he nodded at him. "Funeral and wake. Need to go pay respects. Rest of the night's on track as plan. Pick you up after your physio. We'll grab dinner. Carmine's. Deal?"

E eyed him more. "You were on the news, Dad," he said. "I think." Hank let out a breath and turned to look at him. "Eva saw it too. It was her neighborhood."

Hank nodded. "Yea …," he acknowledged.

"There were snipers, Dad," E put to him. "That must mean something bad was happening."

Hank gave a little smack and shook his head. "Tactical team didn't need to be there. Weren't needed. But it did make a pretty shot for the news cameras. That's all."

"People were in vests, Dad," E put to him. "You weren't."

"Didn't need to be," he said. "Not that kind of situation."

"There were guns," E pressed. His eyes glassing a bit.

Hank smacked.

"Dad," E gurgled. "You can't get hurt. … Or shot. Die."

Hank let out a slow breath and moved back over to his son. Gave his shoulder a squeeze and went and sat back on the foot of the bed. His son just stared at him. He put his hand next to him on the bed and gave a little nod at it. His boy hesitated but then came and sat down next to him. He gave his kid's shoulder a squeeze again as he did. Kept his hand there.

"E, been doing the job a long time. Make a lot of calls over my lifetime. Gotten good at trusting my gut. Reading the situation. This wasn't one where I had to worry about getting shot."

E just started straight ahead. Worked at trying to keep his voice level. Worked at trying to hide his tears.

"You said you'll be here …" he said.

Hank just held onto his shoulder tighter. "For all the say I've got in it, Magoo, I will."

"Then you should wear a vest," he said. "Always."

Hank just smacked. Didn't know how exactly to explain all that to his son. How sometimes having the vest on just accelerated the situation. Took one that could get resolved quickly up to a different level you didn't want to get into. Didn't know how to explain to him either that … job was different now. And he was different now. Summer had changed him too. Again. And sometimes he needed to go at shit in a different way for his own sanity. To exert some kind of control in a fucking world and life and city that he didn't seem to have too much control over anymore. Just a bit of a pawn. And he fucking hated that. So he had to put out his own message – put himself out there – in a different way. Meant that sometimes he might look a little half-cocked these days. A little off the leash. But there was logic to it. And letting some of that out at work – on the job – let him go home and … be who he needed to be when he was there. A father. A daddy to a sick kid.

"Or you should … do a different job …" E muttered.

He held his boy's shoulder a little tighter at that. "That's not going to happen, Magoo," he said. "We need me job. For a whole lot of reasons. I need it too. For a whole lot more. Like it. It's what I've got."

"You've got me," E whispered. "You're all I've got."

Hank grunted. "Got to stop thinking that way," he said. "We've got Olive and Henry. Got Jay and Erin. Got friends. People we care about. Not just the two of us, Ethan."

"It's supposed to be," he said. "You said … it's us against … all this."

He pulled his boy a bit closer against him. He knew E was having a rough week. Lots of appointments lately. Always. Just sick. Just tired. Exhausted. They both were.

"Is," Hank acknowledged. "But we've got others. Pass the hot potato sometimes. When we need to."

"Why can't … I just be sick tonight. And … not go to physio. You not go out … again."

"Because we've both got responsibilities tonight," he said. "Both got jobs to do. Things we need to live up to."

Because he needed E to recognize just as much as he needed Upton to realize that there were good men and there were good cops. And you could be both. And even when someone wasn't both – sometimes you needed to recognize the circumstances. You needed to think about the larger picture.

He needed Upton to get on the same page. And that was a hard sell with a kid like Hailey. Not as a cop. But as a person. A woman. Who she was inside.

But she needed to be thinking about more than that. They both did. If they were going to be on the same page. Now. Going forward.

Sometimes you disclosed. Sometimes you took things to the grave. That's how being a cop worked. At least in Chicago. At least in his unit. And he got the sense Upton was still learning that. That it wasn't the kind of gig she wanted. Wasn't the kind of cop she wanted to be. Or at least the kind of person she wanted to be.

Because sometimes living with things like that. It was hard. It was work. And you had to carry it with you.

Until the grave.

He'd seen what that had done to his family before. To him – growing up in that. And things he knew now about his father. To him as a man and a father and a cop. To what it'd done to Erin. And their relationship and family. To what it'd done to others in his unit – other kids like Hailey. And Atwater. And Burgess. And how they were learning to interact with that. To live with that. When they had living examples of what that did to a person. In him. In O.

And it wasn't pretty. Knew that.

But you needed to think about the kids at home. Little kids. Little guys. About what all this did to them. If more came out. Not just about the pension. About the benefits. About the bills that needed to be paid. And paid. And paid. That what it did to the people these boys would become. The type of men they'd be some day.

And kids. They needed legacy. You needed to give them a legacy. And sometimes – a lot of times – that was just some other fairy tale you told them. But it helped get them to adulthood. Sometimes it helped get them farther than that.

And kids needed to know the parent who was gone. You told them the stories. The good stories. The good memories. Over and over again. You painted that picture. The hero. The folk hero. The legacy that had been left for them. And you glossed over the bad. The regrettable. The things that you wanted to – needed to – forget. Because no person was perfect. And no life was particularly beautiful or pretty when you got down to it.

You needed to think about the city too. And the climate they were living in. And recognize sometimes people needed fucking fables to tell themselves about the circumstances of anything.

That they needed heroes. The city needed a hero in blue. Someone they could admire. Not that he'd call McGrady a hero. Hank knew heroes. He worked with them in the past. He'd seen McGrady when he was at his best – when bullets were flying and knew that somewhere in him there was a hero but that he hadn't let those colors – that cape – coming flying out. Hank, though, he'd place bets on the fact that he came home to one each night. In his own house.

A little, crippled guy – where the fucking crutches and perseverance had become his super powers. And that some of that had rubbed off on him. Made him keep coming home. Him keep putting one foot in front of the other too. Him keeping his head on straight – thinking straight – even when he was going half-cocked. Because he knew he had to be constantly looking ahead. Now. A step ahead in this fucking game Denny – Chicago, America – had them in.

And in that game - right now Chicago needed hero cops. Not scoundrels and gamblers and adulterers and womanizers and men who committed suicide and framed other men when they couldn't handle their own shit. And that was what McGrady was. But that wasn't what Chicago was going to know. Because that didn't make pretty pictures on the news. The cameras didn't like that.

And as much as what McGrady was off the job – as much as that bothered Hank as a man and a husband and a father – he also would save on passing judgement. Because in this case it wasn't his to pass. Because whatever judgement McGrady was going to face – in the end – that was already in some kind of motion. And maybe when you got down to it when you were the kind of man and husband and father who lived their life that way – and eventually got to the point that you were willing to face it – doing what McGrady did was the best he could come up with in what managing his own shit looked like. Because at least there was something there for his family. Another lie. But a lie that would support them. For what that was worth. If they could look past the pain of that one too and try to endure the benefit it brought.

So it came down to the fact that maybe you just had to pick the facts and myths and fables you told in a given moment. And that'd be what he'd tell Upton. In not so many words. That he'd try to get her to understand. Without telling his life story – the things he'd done and hadn't know, the facts and myths about him, and his wife and the kids he'd be left to raise on his own because of his own poor choices. Without talking to her like a child. Or preaching at her. Without getting up on a soapbox.

Because he wasn't a politician. And he didn't need the fucking politics that the job had become. Especially while wearing this damn white shirt. When he was just supposed to have a fucking career in blue.

But all of it – it was just the fucking lies you told yourself to get by. Sometimes there wasn't too much of a line between fact and fiction anyway. Sort of blended together. Anymore. In a society of reality television. And social media. And bombardment of propaganda and branding.

Didn't much like it. Any of it. The situation. Right now. At work or home. Or in society.

But sometimes living a double life – and a partial lie, a bit of a fraud – was how you kept going. Kept your sanity. That double life. Home and work. But Hank hoped – believed with him – it was good cop and good man. Though, he wasn't sure Upton quite saw it the same way. Just wasn't how her compass swung about any of this. And that might be a problem. Not just right now either. In the future. But one day at a time.

That's how he had to do home life too. Because it wasn't easy raising kids on your own. And it sure hadn't ever gotten easier. Wasn't sure it ever really would. Not for him as a father. Not for J as a teen, a young man. And sure wouldn't have been for E growing up. Too much missing. No matter how hard he tried.

"Why can't you just … treat me like … I'm sick … sometimes …," E whispered.

"Because you being sick, Ethan, that's just reality," Hank said. "I teach you how to live with – operate in – reality."

His kid looked at him with watery eyes. "You work so much now," he said.

Hank cupped his cheek. "Playing field is just a little different right now," he said. "Still learning the manoeuvres. You are too."

"I'm really tired, Dad," E said. "I just …"

He nodded. "Life's tiring," he acknowledged. "Do what you got to do. We fall. And we pick ourselves back up. Keep trudging forward."

"To what?" E pressed. Such an empty statement but so fucking loaded. But Hank picked the loaded aspect and patted at his son's cheek.

"Right now," he said. "To Thanksgiving. A lull. Chance to take a deep breath."

And hoped that he was telling the truth there. It wasn't just a fable. That he'd get a few days – some downtime – to take that deep breath. To spend some time with his son. In a reality that looked even a tiny bit better than the reality that day.

Get to that one step at a time. Fall. Get back up. That's the way it had to work. Because eventually they all got to play the role of the fallen. It was how you dealt with the gig that mattered. What you did after the fall. The way you lived.

Hank hoped he was making some of it right. That his legacy wouldn't be a folk tale. And that there'd be someone around to benefit from it – not fall victim to it. That there'd be someone around to tell it. That there'd be more parts that they wanted to tell than they wanted to hide.

But by then – that wasn't going to be anything much in his control anyhow. So not too much point getting worried about it anyway.

Better to worry about other things. Upton. Pick up. Carmine's. Paying the bills. Ethan's treatment. Thanksgiving dinner. Chicago, New York, Lake Geneva? Fucking holiday season already there. Almost. Not prepared for that at all. Teen kid at home. Little grandson. And medical crap to still get through with E before they finished off 2017.

End off one year. Go into the next.

Clean up Chicago. And still having a job while he did it. While he balanced cop and father. Job and home. The two personas he had to keep up.

And it was fucking exhausting. He was feeling the Old Man title. He could see it in the mirror now. Staring back at him in the morning.

But all of this crap. It was a step at a time. Conversation at a time. Sometimes a hug at a time.

And E needed one. Could tell. So he held him tight. Because he wasn't going to be the one who fell in any of this. Not if he had anything to say about it. Not in his life. Not until the grave. A place he didn't have any intention of falling into any time soon.

If he had his way.

 **AUTHOR NOTE:**

 **Might do a Thanksgiving chapter. Thinking about it. How it'd play out. If Erin would come home. If they'd go there. If they'd go back to Lake Geneva. If Olive would attend or go see her sister or stay in Chicago if Hank and E went to New York. But think it'd be interesting given where the family would be at these days.**

 **Beyond that, I know — based on the fact my readership has pummelled to about 200 or so of you and basically no comments — many of you are not reading CPD anymore. And many are not watching the show. But even though I miss the Lindsay character and I miss the patrol stories and the personal subplot stories generally, I have been enjoying the cases this season. Which is not something I would've said the past several season. But I do feel it's really harkening back to the first season in a way that's too predictable and a bit of a repeat (e.g. — Ruzek is now becoming Jin … let's guess how this plays out …). Suppose we'll see. But I am watching.**


	6. Ghosts

**Title: Hereafter**

 **Author: ZombieJazz**

 **Fandom: Chicago PD**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own them. Chicago PD and its characters belong to Dick Wolf. The character of Ethan has been created and developed for the sake of this AU series.**

 **Summary: This is a series of O/S set within the Interesting Dynamics AU (i.e. Hank has another teen-aged son, and Jay and Erin are engaged, Olive and his grandson came back to Chicago). The scenes are set after (and/or inspired by) episodes in S5 of Chicago PD. There may occasionally be a stand-alone O/S set outside the season to continue the storyline and character arcs established in the AU. This is an exploration of what would happen with the characters as defined in the AU, if Erin left. It is a continuation of The Way From Here.**

 **SPOILER ALERT: There are MAJOR spoilers in this collection from Interesting Dynamics, So This is Christmas, Scenes, Aftermath, So It Goes and The Way From Here (including chapters/scenes in So It Goes that have not yet been written or posted). This series also contains SPOILERS related to SEASON 5 of Chicago PD.**

Hank brought the overloaded paper bag into the kitchen and dropped it onto the counter. Living in a bit of a black hole these days. Not getting out for groceries or errands enough. Not getting to manage his home life – his son – enough.

But that was likely part of Denny's plan. Get him chasing his tail while he tried to circle around the troops. To protect what he had left. To make another mistake while he was doing that. Feeding into it all. Getting too fucking distracted by the fucking game. Or his own temper.

Denny had gone chipping away. More than found his breaking point. Not that it was too hard. Had been right there flapping in the wind since June. Since his boy took a turn. His breaking point was the whole reason he'd gotten himself into this mess.

His kids. His family. You didn't touch them.

And Hank had to more than protect them. Couldn't fail them. Not again. Done that more than enough. To all three of them. That'd pretty much was what got him into this mess too.

But it was different now. Different with a real sick kid who needed a whole lot of medical care. A life of medical care. Different with a daughter who was about to be a mother. With two more grandchildren on the way. Different with a grandson growing up without a father. And as well-meaning as H's mother was, Hank knew Olive would always likely be doing some living from hand-to-mouth and struggling and tugging at frayed ends just to make those ends meet.

His kids – his family – had become a real unprotected underbelly. His soft spot in more ways than one. And it was reaching the point that Hank knew he might need to fall on his sword a bit to protect all of them.

Another kind of breaking point. One that Denny already had figured out.

One that Hank was trying not to make his scrambling around too apparent. To keep it off the books. Out of sight. To try to have his affairs in order – the lives of his boy and his grandkids – in order as best he could before enough pieces got put together that he had some jagoffs at the door putting bracelets on him. Hopefully not in front of his boy.

And he'd take those bracelets over them manipulating Erin. Over two more kids growing up without a mother. Without a parent in their home.

He just had to have his shit in order. In case he didn't figure out some other way to turn this around. Had sort of hoped that Denny's situation with his daughter – that him shooting down the asshole on his and her behalf – might've got the guy's head on straight about how all this worked. Had sort of hoped that he had enough intel on others – enough dirt, enough favors and bribes and years on the job – that there'd be some level of understanding about what had happened. About what had gone down. About the past being the past. Already was something he had to carry with on his own accord. Day in and day out. Knowing the multiple failings his decisions had brought on his family. That it wasn't just his life that hung in the balance because of it with this coming back to bite him in the ass now. And living with that vengence just not feeling so good and not giving him – or his family – the real outcome or resolution they needed in any of this. Instead he'd just got them all caught up by their balls even tighter. This time in a near vice grip.

Hank didn't feel like he had a lot of wriggle room. Didn't have a lot to go on in the way of choices. And had to be more prudent with the choices he made this time. Because of E. Because of those grandkids.

And now that Denny was sniffing around in other ways. Now that there was a witness. One who'd seen O. One who'd seen a young woman. Twenties, brown hair. Didn't exactly jive with Erin. But Alvin was right. It'd only be a matter of time before Denny and the Ivory Tower figured out who it was.

So the best he could do was try to prepare. Trying to get his shit in order while he tried to get a grip on this. Hank wasn't sure he'd make it through a bid in lock-up again. Not this time. Six years older. And six years more of making enemies. And losing allies. Fewer favors to call in. Fewer bribes to hold over others. Too much egg on his own face. Too much owed around. And way too many liabilities in his life at this point.

Just had to try to get things set up. In case. In case he didn't make things work out this time. In case they got him into a cage that he didn't have connections anymore to pull himself out of. Connects were different now. The people upstairs were. The city was. The job was. And he was still getting a grip on all of that too. Making navigating this now a bit harder.

But he could still navigate the home front. Could still move money around for E's care and for his grandbabies. Could still do his best to make sure this all worked out the best it could for them. Not that it was any kind of 'best case' outcome. It was a whole pile of shit. One that he didn't know who to be more scared for – those grandbabies that Erin had on the way or for his son and how this was going to break him.

Hank didn't much care if he died in lock up. But he sure cared if his son did. He sure fucking cared what this did to his boy. He sure fucking cared if they slapped bracelets on Erin and took her away from those babies. He sure fucking cared about how this was going to make his remaining kids think of him. How his grandkids would remember him.

If, and when, any of them would understand any of this. If there was anything to really understand.

More and more Hank was having to face he'd gone off the handle. He'd gone off the leash. He'd let his temper and his anger and his rage get the best of him. Kevin Bingham had hurt his family. But Hank's own actions – his revenge – was hurting his family even more. It was doing a whole lot more long-term harm now. In the future. And that was a tough fucking pill to swallow.

"Don't get a hello," he graveled at E's transfixed gaze at the table.

As usual the mutt had greeted him coming him but not so much as a glance from his teenager. Kid had been so quiet Hank hadn't even realized E was in the kitchen when he'd come in the back door. A little surprised to see him sitting there. More days than not the kid was taking up space on the couch when he got in the door.

"Hi …," E muttered at him. Still didn't get as much as a glance. Kid was still staring at whatever it was he had in front of him. Doubted it was homework that he was looking at that intently.

Hank gave him a bit of a smack. Stared at him to see if he got anything more out of the kid. But didn't. So just ignored the attitude too. Teenagers – lots of attitudes … attitude problems … that weren't worth getting your shorts in a knot about.

Instead just started pulling some of the veg out of the bag. Doing the unpacking routine. Get things organized. But at least that movement got a momentary glance.

"Already put dinner in," Magoo grumbled at him.

Hank grunted and gave the oven a bit of his own glance. Smiled a little. Camille's "Dog's Supper". Knew Magoo would tell him it was Nacho Casserole. But Hank wasn't sure you could really call the mess of ground meat, olives and whatever peppers and onions they had left in the fridge nearing age-expiry drenched in whatever salsa or tomato sauce masquerading as salsa could really be called Tex-Mex, a casserole, or even dinner. But it sure hadn't stopped Camille from cleaning out the leftovers in the fridge that way and plopping it on the table with a bag of nachos and shredded cheese and letting the kids go to town. They'd never complained when their mom served that up. But Hank had sure turned up his nose some. Wasn't on his hit list.

"Dog's Supper", he'd teased her more than once. Mostly just to bug her. Always got a reaction out of her. Got her shorts in a knot.

"Maybe tomorrow night you can be home in time to cook and you can make the dinner," he'd get told. Like that was some sort of told-you-so or punishment. Truth was more days than not, he really would rather be home with his wife and kids. He'd really rather be the one getting the food on the table for them all. Man was supposed to do that. Not just the one putting the food on the table – making it for the table too. Without commentary on Camille's cooking. She had her specialties. And then she had her Dog's Supper. A specialty too, apparently. A family recipe that got passed down. A real fucking acquired taste. Maybe just for the about seven to sixteen year old set. Though, he was pretty damn sure that Erin still served this shit up for Halstead too.

But at least his kids could cook. They could fend for themselves. Could take care of themselves. He'd taught them that much. Take care of themselves and take care of each other.

That was something.

"Nacho Casserole," he graveled at E. Got a little listening sound at that. But the kid was back engrossed in his staring.

So he just reached to put the rest of the groceries away. Let the kid have his space that he seemed to want these days. Mixed bag that. Mixed of independence and anger and frustration and loneliness. The kid was getting left to fend for himself a lot. More than Hank would like. Not when he was sick. Not when he was a teen. Not when the reason he was getting pulled away from him wasn't just the job but that it was Denny Woods breathing down his neck like some kind of rabid dog.

And he could only explain so much of that to Magoo. Could only ask the kid to understand so much. And he could really just ask the kid to cope and deal so much. His boy already had to just cope and deal with so much. Had to grow up so much. Suck it up so much. E's plate was full enough – with more than enough responsibility – for a kid his age.

Hank spotted E's pill box sitting on the counter next to the fridge. A glass of juice was sitting there next to it, like it'd been poured and forgotten. Like the kid got sidetracked then by whatever he was fixated on now.

He lifted the box and gave it a little shake. E clearly had been. His late afternoon meds rattled in it.

He stared at the back of his boy's head and gave another little smack. E wasn't being great about being compliant with his medication schedule lately. And fucking hard to manage that when he wasn't there to be making sure he took them on time. When E was at the age – when they were in a time frame – where he needed to just be remembering to do this on his own.

But E had reached his own level of frustration with it all. With being sick. With the pills. With the reality that his vision – the optic neuritis – wasn't getting any worse but the advanced they'd made in getting it back had plateau. That some of the medication helped – with the tremor, with the pain – but it came with side effects. That it made him tired. That it got him stoned. That it came with bouts of nausea and dizziness and headaches. Neuropathy. And he just didn't feel "right" even if it calmed some of the other daily struggles.

Then there were the unseen struggles. The stress and anxiety and depression that E was dealing with. That getting him to take medication for that was another struggle. That it just added to the fatigue. And sometimes left Hank feeling like he wasn't entirely seeing his kid anymore either. But he wanted to make sure it was something else that was under control. That it was at least being managed. Before any more shit hit the fan. Because he didn't doubt that his boy's anxiety and depression was likely going to get worse when it did. That his kid's world would get fucking turned upside down again – no matter what preparations Hank made or how much he tried to ensure his kid had a foundation and was on stable enough footing to come out the other end as still a whole person.

Still, gave the box a little shake and picked up the glass. He took it over to the table and set it in front of the boy while he gave the remaining tuffs of hair on the top of his head a gentle tug and bent to press his lips at the top of his forehead. But E's eyes gazed up at him as he gave that tug and gave him that examination.

"You smell like cigarettes," he said. "And stale coffee."

"Stopped for a pop with your Uncle Alvin."

E looked him in the eyes again – behind those Coke bottles of his. "You're lying," he said flatly.

Hank gave that a smack.

"You are," E contended. "Uncle Al smokes cigars. Barely. You smell like cigarettes. And you said you'd stop that."

E pulled away from where Hank was still clutching at those strands of hair he had left. And he didn't argue.

And wasn't going to defend the fact that he had stopped to talk to Al. To try to sort this out. To try to help Al to calm his own nerves. To see if there was some way to figure out his finances and to keep him from falling onto his own sword, because he shouldn't have to do that either. To make sure he got the necessity of keeping Erin off books on this. Just fucking out of it. That it wasn't them bringing her name up prematurely. That they weren't getting her onto the same page – because she needed to be kept as far away from this mess that he'd already let her get in as possible. To make sure Al remembered other promises and commitments he'd made in trying to cover up Hank's ass – that he'd take care of his kids if things went to shit. That he was E's godfather – Confirmation sponsor – for a reason. Wasn't just some fucking phony religious affirmation. A real responsibility and commitment. One that Hank needed him to live up to and be around for. For if he couldn't be for his own son – for his daughter or grandkids either. That someone would still be there on the outside watching their backs and lifting them up when they fucked up.

Instead Hank just sat down at the table with his boy and tapped his finger against the pillbox.

"Not optional Magoo."

His kid gave him a look – but also didn't put up an argument. The lid got popped. The meds dumped into his palm only to get tossed into his mouth and the juice got chugged down.

Hank reached and pulled the flyer E had been so transfixed by toward him as he did it. Allowed a little smile as he did and gave the kid a glance as he flipped through a couple pages on his own.

"Looking to gear up for ball?" he asked.

It got a shrug.

Hank grunted and tapped at a page. "Should at least look at getting you a new bat," he said. "With the reg changes this season. Get the sticker."

"I'm not likely going to play this season," he said. "Again."

Hank made a small listening sound but kept his eyes on the flyer. Looking at the new equipment they were pushing that year. The fucking realization he might not get to see his boy play again. The reality that getting to watch his kids play sports – getting to toss balls around with them in the back lot – had been one of his quiet pleasures of being a father. Something that always felt like he almost did right. Tossed the ball. Got to a bunch of games each season. Showed an interest.

"Might have to skip out on the competitive league," Hank allowed – even though that might not make a difference if he ever actually got to see E have another game. Even if it was just RIC 'disability' slo-pitch. Kids still put on a real good show. Some real talented players in the group despite what any and all of them were dealing with. "But could still sign you up for the rec league."

"They basically play wiffle ball," E muttered.

Hank grunted. "Sounds like some good sandlot stick ball."

E just reached and pulled the flyer back toward him. "I was just looking …"

"Hmm …," Hank allowed and watched the kid stare all longingly at the pages.

Kid's life had changed so much. Or just kept changing. But a lot of loops just kept getting handed to him. A lot of things he loved kept getting taken away from him. Hated to know that ball was going to be on that last – when he'd missed out on last season. When Hank could feel that more change and more loops were coming. When the kid needed to have something.

"Think we should go over and take a look," Hank tried.

E gave him a glance. "I'm saving right now."

He grunted and stared at the top of his head. "For what?"

E shrugged. "Always a good idea to save," he said.

And Hank nodded. Maybe he'd managed to teach him more than a few things. Maybe some of it had stuck some. Maybe he'd remember it – use it – even if he didn't remember him fondly.

"Know I love you," Hank told him.

And E eyed him again through those thick lens. Looking him in the eye – like he'd also been taught. Maybe too well. E was a good lie detector. For all the ways he fumbled around social cues, he also was real good at reading a situation sometimes.

"I know …," the kid allowed. No 'I love you too, Dad' back that night. But Hank knew he did.

He knew he did just like he knew there was this whole part of him that wanted to lay it out for the kid that he'd be taken care of. That his sister and his Uncle Al and his Aunt Trudy would take care of him. That this was all going to work out alright.

But E had enough ghosts to deal with. Didn't need the Ghosts of the Future – that may or may not come to be – to start haunting him too. They had enough of ones from Past and Present in their lives. Fucking things up and weighing them down. Distracting them and stressing them more than inspiring and guiding them in any kind of meaningful way.

And he was just a kid. A kid who'd been through enough. He didn't need to be anticipating more. Or waiting in bated breath for more. Waiting for that next shoe to drop. Already did that in a lot of other ways.

Hank just needed him to get to be a kid for once. For him to just be a father. A father of a kid who got to do normal kid fucking shit. His boy of summer.

"Think I could spot you on a bat," Hank said, "if you'll get out on the field."

Because maybe those were about the kind of past, present, future ghosts he could manage. Ones he could leave lurking in E's life. A real fucking backward Field of Dreams. But maybe it'd be if he built it they'd come.

Hank had fucking made the mistakes – the choices – to build this mess. Need to fucking build a foundation up so his kid was still fucking standing when the hole he'd dug for his family started collapsing in on itself. Needed to fucking build him up. Best he knew how. Best he could. Needed to be ready. In case anything that could happen any minute did happen any minute.

In fucking case.


	7. Saved

**Title: Hereafter**

 **Author: ZombieJazz**

 **Fandom: Chicago PD**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own them. Chicago PD and its characters belong to Dick Wolf. The character of Ethan has been created and developed for the sake of this AU series.**

 **Summary: This is a series of O/S set within the Interesting Dynamics AU (i.e. Hank has another teen-aged son, and Jay and Erin are engaged, Olive and his grandson came back to Chicago). The scenes are set after (and/or inspired by) episodes in S5 of Chicago PD. There may occasionally be a stand-alone O/S set outside the season to continue the storyline and character arcs established in the AU. This is an exploration of what would happen with the characters as defined in the AU, if Erin left. It is a continuation of The Way From Here.**

 **SPOILER ALERT: There are MAJOR spoilers in this collection from Interesting Dynamics, So This is Christmas, Scenes, Aftermath, So It Goes and The Way From Here (including chapters/scenes in So It Goes that have not yet been written or posted). This series also contains SPOILERS related to SEASON 5 of Chicago PD.**

 **THIS CHAPTER IS SET AFTER S05E20.**

Alvin didn't know what he was looking at. Just always checking his back at this point like even this house call would be something else that would get held against him. Tampering or coercion. And maybe it was that. It was that when you got right down to it.

But really was just looking at the street. A lot of memories on this street. At Hank and Camille's house. Years of friendship. Partnership. Family, Hank would say. And there was a point to it. But it was also an old way of thinking. It didn't work that way so much anymore. Not in the job or in the city. Maybe not even between them. Not in the way it had way back when.

It was the past. Just like those memories were in the past. He never came around much anymore. Alvin couldn't really pinpoint exactly when it stopped. It just sort of phased out like these things did. Wife, kids, the job. And all those other parts of your past that you had between each other. Those demons and duties you couldn't outrun. The ones that had you watching your back and looking over your shoulder just like he was now. The ones that kept you up at night. All night.

Five years ago he would've said he hadn't slept right in the better part of a decade. Maybe more like the better part of a two. But it was worse now. Layered in different ways. Pain and memories and thoughts that had gotten a lot harder to numb with age and years and experience.

He wanted to say that the stop-bys petered out when Camille was gone. When Hank had a little kid in the hospital and all kinds of people looking at him. But the city had been a different place then. Eight-odd years ago now. And he – they – were able to exact his plan on how he wanted to deal with it differently. Without this kind of worry. But it'd still been another demon that had crawled up onto his back. Maybe the one that made him come around less then.

And then less again when Hank got himself sent to lock-up. And less again when Ethan came home sicker than before and it was just hard to look at. And less and less and less after Justin was gone. And then Lex was gone. And it wasn't that Alvin came around less. It was that what was even left of the person he'd been had been completely swallowed.

He hadn't always been a good friend to Hank. He did things for him. He went at things however Hank wanted to handle them. He had his back. He'd thought. But that wasn't being a good friend.

That was just taking marching orders from another guy who'd been broken over and over. And Al didn't know what that said about him as a man anymore. How long it'd been that way. Or if it'd always been that way. If that was who he was. The man he was and the way his morals swung. The things he couldn't do for himself but that he'd do for someone else. Things that maybe he shouldn't have.

Maybe if he'd been the voice of reason – of sense – like Hank had been when Lexi died and he wanted to go down that same hole that Hank had gone and got himself in – they wouldn't be in that hole together now.

They wouldn't be having to watch their backs. Coming over to his place wouldn't have to feel as foreign as it felt right then. Because he couldn't even say when the last time he was there. Ethan's Confirmation likely. Nearly a year. A year he'd checked out. Felt like a second and a fucking eternity all at once.

He turned as the door popped open. Just a crack. Hank should get a peep hole. But it wasn't Hank who was peering out at him. It was Ethan. He had to look down to catch the kid's eyes staring at him.

"Hey, Kid …," he offered.

It seemed like the kid had to think about it for a second before he opened the door. Almost like he really hadn't been around in long enough that Ethan wasn't too sure who he was. Or more likely, Hank had given him orders about opening the door for anyone.

He did ease it open, though. And it just rammed home how long it'd been since he'd had his eyes on the kid. This kid that he was supposed to be godfather to and Confirmation whatever to. Hank's kid that he'd been told he needed to look out for if it was Hank who ended up in bracelets for all this. But it'd been months since he'd even seen Ethan. Hank never let the kid even swing by District anymore. But that was likely smart. These days. But it'd made the gap between visit that much bigger. And somehow the kid always looked smaller – sicker – than he remembered him.

It was hard to believe Hank's youngest was a teenager now. His height and weight didn't give that away. He still looked like a little boy. A little boy with the scarred up face and the thick eyeglasses on a strap to keep them in place against his near missing ear. A kid on crutches and with the St. Ignatius uniform hanging off him in a way that just made it look even more like his health was declining by the minute.

"Hi …," was what he got. And that was it. He had this real caution and question around the statement. The kid's brow creased with it.

And he still didn't get invited in. But that was likely fair too.

Maybe it was best. He hadn't expected Ethan to be there at this time of morning. He'd thought – hoped – he'd be walking to school by now. That he'd be catching Hank in a few minutes between his family life and work life. But he wasn't. Clearly.

And that was another truth – him and Hank got so little time to talk about … things that weren't this, that weren't work – anymore, he didn't even know what Ethan's schedule really was. He only knew so much about where Hank's family life was had. Where Hank's kid – his god-child's - health was really at. What appointments or activities or obligations that Hank was somehow juggling in those moments and hours that he slipped out of the bullpen with "some things to take care of". It wasn't all work or chasing his own tail when he said that. The thing that Hank needed to be taking care of was standing right there.

"You going to let your godfather in," Hank rasped from just out of sight and Ethan eased the door open enough that time so that he could see him coming down the stairs at full speed.

Alvin wasn't sure Ethan had any intention of doing that. He actually felt like the kid was giving him a bit of a 'go away and fuck off' look. But maybe that was fair too. Ethan might be a bit of an odd duck – for more reasons than Al could count – but he was pretty astute. Whatever Hank was or wasn't (and Alvin knew it'd be a whole lot of wasn't) saying to him, the kid would know something was – had been for months – going on. You could feel it in the air. Ethan picked up on those things. He might not read faces so hot but the kid had a read on tension and energy. Emotional intelligence. Maybe more than anyone gave him much credit for.

But Hank didn't give Ethan a choice in the matter. That was likely pretty spot-on for Hank too. A lot of do as I say, not as I do. Maybe that'd been another harsh reality to settle into.

The door got pulled open. He got a "Hey, man," while he took a second to decide whether he should even do this. With the kid there. Took that beat while Hank's eyes were set on his kid.

Ethan got a grunt. He got Hank tugging at the buttons on his shirt, undoing a few on the kid after he'd shoved the textbook and frayed notebook he'd come down the stairs with into the kid's hands.

"Change this out," Hank graveled at the kid. Clear it was another thing not up for discussion. Al gazed at the kid's stripe down enough to realize he had a Field T on under his uniform shirt.

"But I'm goin' there after," Ethan whined back at his dad.

It just got another grunt. Another gesture. "Can see it through your shirt. Not going to play taxi service for you if you're landing yourself in the Breakfast Club."

That got a real over-animated huff. "I'm gonna put on the sweater. No one's even gonna be able to tell."

Bigger grunt. An end of discussion one. "Got physio before your Field hours. Not going to wear this all day. Go work up a sweat and then show up at your gig stinking like a hobo. Take the shirt off. Throw it and some civies in a go-bag. End of discussion."

Ethan's eyes put up a weak challenge – one that Alvin thought might be a little more vocal if he wasn't standing right there. But his dad just stared him right down and with a defeated huff, Ethan tried to nudge by for the stairs back to his room. Hank blocked that path too.

"Go put that in your bag first and get your mutt inside," he ordered. "Going to roll in five-to-ten."

That got another sigh but the kid trudged back through their front room – off to that workspace that Alvin didn't know anymore if it was still Camille's or if it was Hank's or if it'd just become a place to do the kid's homework.

"Sorry 'bout that," Hank said as the kid got away from them. "Morning battles pretty standard these days."

Alvin nodded. He remembered those. Puberty. Teen years. All of it had been a battle of the wills. Hard to win when you weren't father of the year. Though, sometimes you managed to convince them for a second or two you weren't so bad. He thought Hank's track record in that department might be better than his. He'd had three kids casting votes and ganging up against him, though. So maybe not.

He inched inside and held out the thermos. He wasn't even sure why he was pretending to bring it for Hank. It was for himself. To try to sober up a bit before landing in the bullpen. But it felt like the most socially appropriate olive branch he could manage.

"Thought he'd be headed in to school by now," he muttered.

Hank took the thing, giving it a glance. "Nah," he allowed. "Dropping him off at the curb is about the only way to make sure he at least steps through the front door these days."

And there was another reminder of just how … checked out he'd been. The fall-out of what those kids – that school, the Internet – had done to the kid. Above and beyond the health aspects of it. He hadn't been there for Hank. Or Ethan. And it was likely another time he should've been. But he'd stayed away. He'd respected Hank's space. And hadn't interjected any opinions on the whole thing – or how Hank dealt with it. And maybe he should've. Maybe that would've been the right thing to do. Not that it would've likely changed much of the now. Though maybe it would've. Butterfly wings and all that. Chaos theory. Ethan would like that.

"You bringing me coffee," Hank put to him.

"Yea …," he muttered. Could smell on Hank – through the whole house – that he'd already had his own. Likely at least two cups by that time of day. Black. Strong brewed. Al knew that was part of his routine. Hank was a guy with a lot of routines. To the point of predictability. Predictability that would usual run counter to anyone being the kind of cop Hank was for all the years he'd been a cop. But somehow he'd made it work. Up until then. All those years.

Alvin knew he didn't need to bring Hank coffee. He knew there would already be a hot pot in the kitchen.

"You realize the last time you brought me coffee, I think we were riding squad together," Hank said and started back to that kitchen. Like maybe he was actually going to pour it. More likely he'd pour it down the sink and actually give him something they both knew would taste better.

"Well, return to basics is good," Al said.

"That right …," was muttered ahead of him. But he wasn't following anymore.

He was staring at another reminder of how long it'd been since he'd been in that house. How long he'd known Hank. And Camille. And their kids. And of the promises and covenants made within that.

Hank's – Camille's – house was always one with photos in it. This careful catalogue of family life. That somehow through it all – years of the job – Hank had made family work for him in a different way than Al had ever been able to manage. He was made for it – or meant for it – in a different way than Al had ever been able to full wrap his head, or his life, around. No matter how much he'd tried. Maybe he hadn't tried enough. Or in the right kind of ways. Or maybe it just wasn't the kind of man he was or knew how to be. To be a father and a husband. When you were a veteran and a veteran cop. In Chicago.

Undercover – being someone else – had always just been easier than what society expected or needed out of you. What a wife or a daughter needed out of you. Living and moving from assignment to assignment. Crashing in whatever pad you're told to or give on whatever case you've let swallow up your life – it was easier than finding, making, maintaining a home.

He'd fucked that up repeatedly. In so many ways. And Hank hadn't. As much as he had – he also hadn't. This newly added – though it might've been there for months or the better part of a year or more – shrine just paid testament to that.

His wife. And his kids. And his grandkid. Lake trips and baseball games and family dinners and kiddos on Santa Claus' knee. High school graduations and police academy ceremonies. Family and friends and smiles and laughter just spilling off those overflowing shelves of memories.

"Didn't realize either one of us missed your burnt coffee," Hank grumbled at him from off in the kitchen.

But Alvin still wasn't looking at him. He was still looking at those shelves.

And in there – he saw himself. Literally, not figuratively. He'd been given a place near the front-and-center of Hank's family in this cluttered shrine. And his daughter. His daughter who'd grown up calling them Uncle Hank and Aunt Camille. His daughter who went to Erin like she was the older, cooler, wiser cousin who could talk some sort of sense to her. His daughter who'd played babysitter to Hank's youngest to earn pocket money for all her teen-aged waxing and waning whims. His daughter, who in some ways maybe felt more comfortable in knowing that the Voights were family than Alvin had ever let his child or his wife be. Because of his own pride, humiliation, ego and vanity about decisions made and not made and requests put forth and debts he'd always feel like he had to live up to. Even if Hank owed him a few too. The difference was that Hank didn't feel like he owed debts. Not his own – and not that his 'family' owed back to him. Alvin knew that wasn't how the guy operated.

Denny Woods said that Hank wouldn't return any favors. But that just showed a lack of understanding of the man.

Denny Woods said that Hank wasn't worth it. Any of it. But these pictures in front of him just proved again – that he was.

If he needed more confirmation that he'd made … the right choice. He'd come to his own decision – and his own action. Without marching orders or a need for approval or the thrill of doing something off the books for someone else. Because that's the kind of man he was.

And Hank was back. There next to him. Again. Staring at him staring at those pictures.

"What the hell is going on, Al?"

He gazed by him, watching Ethan clatter out the backdoor, barking at the family dog in a way that would've been taught to him by growing up with a dad who's bark who'd always been worse than his bite.

And as much as it wasn't enough time – it was also going to be his window of opportunity to get maybe two minutes without Hank's kid, or his work kids, eavesdropping.

"Terry from Narcotics called me last night," he allowed. "Ruben Gilberts possession charge was dropped. So …"

"Uhh …," Hank grunted. But it was the way his head dropped that gave him more away. The thoughts that Alvin knew were going through his head and the reality that he was letting himself accept again. To steady himself for. But that wasn't the plan.

"My plan didn't work," Al said. He'd run with it against Hank's advice on the matter. He'd been making plays on his own. Ones that he could tell – knew – Hank didn't approve of. Plays that wouldn't be the way Hank played the game.

But Hank's moves were being made so carefully and cautiously. This measured chess match he was having with Denny where it felt more like he was just trying to draw out the game than escape the evitable check-mate. And that Hank had already prepared himself for the loss. That he'd just been hoping it wouldn't be coming this soon. That there were still moves to make.

And maybe there were. Maybe Hank still had a few. For himself. And maybe for him. But Alvin saw the way to just end this now. To not prolong it anymore in a way that would just create more collateral damage.

This wasn't about Hank. As much as it was, it wasn't. Hank might've set it in motion. He'd made his choices. Maybe bad ones. Ones that maybe Al should've gotten in front of – stopped him like Hank had with Lexi – rather than just telling him he'd have his back however he wanted to play it.

So it wasn't just Hank who'd made his choices. It was him too. And Erin.

And now it was about more than that. It was about those kids in Intelligence who still had careers and lives ahead of them, who deserved some sort of chance to not be torn down by this. It was about the family Hank had left. Ethan and Erin and his grandson. About those two more grandkids he had on the way. And the lives and futures – and support – they deserved and needed too.

Hank wasn't the only one at fault. He wasn't the only one who'd made choices or taken action or made bad decisions. And he wasn't the one who made sense in the grand scheme of this reality to be taking the fucking fall.

It didn't make sense. Not in his own life. Not as a friend. And not to protect his family. Not to try to be the kind of man he wanted to hope he could be. Somehow. Before his life disappeared into even more of a blip on the screen.

It was time to get honest. It'd told him he was with him – until the end. A promise made. And for all the things Alvin was and he wasn't – he could say this, he knew he was a man of his word.

"Woods is protecting him," he said. "He wants to make sure he can testify against me."

"Alright," Hank whisped out. "So … we'll figure it out. Another way …"

Al shook his head. "Internal Affairs is going to show up at my door with an arrest warrant—"

"Al," Hank rasped, "I'm not going to let it that far."

Because that was the kind of man Hank was too. Alvin knew it. And likely Denny Woods knew it, because of his predictability. But he wasn't going to let Hank be predictable on this one. He couldn't be. Hank needed to take his beat to get his head on straight. To accept the true reality of all of this.

"Yes you are," Alvin pressed firmly at him. "For both our sakes, yes you are."

A sound of hostile recognition and defeat stuck in Hank's throat and they stared at each other. Hank wasn't one to be told what to do. Even when he knew what was being said was what was good for him. Sometimes he needed to learn to just – take the win. Do what was good for him. For him. Not others. Not the city. Not some past amends or debts or bribes or favors in the bank. Just for him. Without argument.

"Hank, let it go," he stressed to him. "Let it come."

He scoffed.

"In the end they won't have enough," he said.

He hoped. He believed it. He needed to. That he was good enough at all this that there wouldn't be enough. As much as that said about him as a man and a cop and a human being too. But he needed to believe he'd done this right. Though the fact it'd gotten this already said he hadn't. He'd already let Hank down – and Erin down. But that was more reason it needed to let it come. So there was another roadblock – an obstacle in the way of this truly reaching Hank's breaking point – Erin. And maybe the thought of watching another one of their daughter's go down was Al's breaking point too.

"Let it hit me," he said.

"Al—"

"I'll go through it," he contended quietly, gazing just passed Hank's shoulder at the clatter of the door as Ethan came back in through the kitchen, his dog at his heels. Hank glanced back too with a little sigh before meeting his eyes again. "I'll deal with the Hell."

"Alvin," Hank shook his head in his own lowered gravel, as he again strained his neck to see what Ethan was doing in that room. "I've been there—"

"I know," Alvin interrupted.

"And it almost killed me," he muttered at him. "Your age, a cop—"

"I know," Alvin said again, "and that's why it's got to be me. It's going to be me."

It wouldn't kill him. Or if it did it'd only be physical. He was already dead inside. For too long to the point that the thought of a physical release seemed like a release. At least he'd have some say in it. He'd get to see it coming. And he could let it come to an end – on his own terms – without having to be the one who cut the cord. A cord that he'd been able to cut for his daughter but one that he couldn't work up the courage to pull for himself. Because maybe that seemed too easy and like he hadn't been punished quite enough for it to be the acceptable exit route. The coward's exit.

Hank dropped his eyes again in quiet acknowledgement that Alvin knew he hadn't wanted to acknowledge. That Hank had spent months setting himself up to be prepared for this – to take this hit on his own. To be the savior or the martyr. To justify and rationalize him taking the fall for this. For his actions and inactions.

"I can't let you do that, Alvin. This is—"

"You can," he said. "And you will. You're already paying you penance, Hank. You're already doing your time. For eight years. With a lot more in front of you. I know that feeling. The difference is," he tilted his head toward the wall that barely separated him for that sick little boy. "He needs his father. And there's going to be three little kids who need their grandfather."

Hank sighed and looked at him.

"You told me you wanted me to look out for Ethan at the start of all this," Al said. "Ethan, your grandkids. Erin. That's what I'm doing, like I said."

"Know that's not what I mean," Hank muttered.

"But maybe it's how we both come out the other side. It's the way we both get saved here."

"Doesn't feel like much of anyone is getting saved," he said.

Alvin gave him a little shrug. "Well, you can't save everyone, Hank."

The man only stared at him. But Alvin could read those eyes. They'd looked at him back in the mirror every morning. So much so that he rarely looked in the mirror anymore.

"Okay?" he put to Hank.

It got a nod but not much of one. But Alvin still gave his shoulder a pat and passed by him – to see the kid in the next room and to get the reminder of why it had to be him. Why he was going to do this. Why it just made sense.

"I'm so sorry …" he heard Hank rasp under his breath and Al glanced back.

He wasn't sure the apology was meant for him because he wasn't sure he needed an apology. But also because it was now Hank who was staring at that shrine of moments and people and memories. Of his kids and his wife. Of the people he'd tried to save on his own and the efforts that had varying degrees of success and failure.

They met eyes. Hank's had glassed over.

"I wasn't there," Hank rasped like he was choking on it. "And …" He inhaled and exhaled hard and looked back at the photos. "I told Camille, promised Camille, I'd be there. For this to work …" he swiped his hand at the pictures. "And …"

Alvin looked at him. "I told Camille something too," he said. "More than once over the years. That I'd be there for you, look out for you. Have your back. Guess maybe I forgot too. … Or just finally figured out what she was asking me …"

And he slipped into the room, giving Ethan a weak smile as he did – as the kid looked at him with all the features of both his parents and a broken, sad, lonely little boy. One that Alvin wasn't going to play a part in seeing him get anymore of. He'd already done enough of that. Failed yet another family member.

But he'd barely stepped in when there was the crash of breaking wood and shattering glass. And Ethan stared in shock and horror.

"Dad …," he started and started for the door.

But Alvin could already hear the fight in Hank to hold in sobs – and to hold in the anger at himself that would lead to holes in the walls. So Alvin reached out and grabbed Ethan that time. Before he got too far.

"Let's just give your dad a minute," he said. And minute and then some. And it'd never be quite enough.

 **AUTHOR NOTE:**

 **So just as clarification, I have decided that the scenes in Hereafter do intersect with Onward Thankfully and Spring Forward. So, basically, yes, we're going to work on the assumption that Erin and Jay are still in a relationship and Erin is pregnant. But these scenes are still taking a scene from S05 and recasting them or acting as a deleted/additional scene depicting the reaction of the characters to a certain episode/case, as would be (or might be) pertinent to their lives and arcs as depicted in this AU.**

 **There's several episodes that I want to go back to and do a scene from. But you can tell what episode it is by the chapter title. It's the same as the episode it's inspired from. I'll usually put a notification at the top.**

 **I'm not going to cross-post chapters (i.e., yes, this scene could likely be placed in Spring Forward too). Instead, hopefully you're just reading any of the stories that are being updated and have a general sense of where they are in "time".**

 **I will likely update Spring Forward next. It might be an Erin/Upton chapter (Erin POV) that I started writing but wasn't working. Or it might be a Jay/Hank chapter (undecided on the POV). And, yes, I still plan to go back and to the Jay/Will chapter. I just haven't got to that yet.**

 **Right now I have a lot of ideas but it's a matter of keeping up with them and other priorities and responsibilities in writing and daily life.**

 **Thanks for your readership, feedback and reviews.**


	8. Allegiance

**Title: Hereafter**

 **Author: ZombieJazz**

 **Fandom: Chicago PD**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own them. Chicago PD and its characters belong to Dick Wolf. The character of Ethan has been created and developed for the sake of this AU series.**

 **Summary: This is a series of O/S set within the Interesting Dynamics AU (i.e. Hank has another teen-aged son, and Jay and Erin are engaged, Olive and his grandson came back to Chicago). The scenes are set after (and/or inspired by) episodes in S5 of Chicago PD. There may occasionally be a stand-alone O/S set outside the season to continue the storyline and character arcs established in the AU. This is an exploration of what would happen with the characters as defined in the AU, if Erin left. It is a continuation of The Way From Here.**

 **SPOILER ALERT: There are MAJOR spoilers in this collection from Interesting Dynamics, So This is Christmas, Scenes, Aftermath, So It Goes and The Way From Here (including chapters/scenes in So It Goes that have not yet been written or posted). This series also contains SPOILERS related to SEASON 5 of Chicago PD.**

 **EPISODE SPOILER ALERT: THIS CHAPTER IS SET WITHIN S05E21 — ALLEGIANCE. THIS IS ALSO A CONTINUATION OF THE LATEST CHAPTER IN SPRING FORWARD.**

Hank watched his rearview mirror as the van came around the corner and headed for the lot.

"Okay, got Halstead arriving with Dexter," he rasped into the radio. "Just standby."

He leaned back – kept out of site and just taking a breath from the weight of fucking life and the world continuing to turn all around him. Kept his eyes on the van – watching it go by. Watching out for where Ruzek and Atwater were in the bushes. The thick of it. Making sure they were staying out of sight too – though he could see them. But hoped no one else had eyes on them.

"No eyes," Atwater's voice came across the radio back at him. "Moving for a better position."

He grunted acknowledgment. Call received.

"We're in position in the back," Burgess came on.

In the back. But saw how she was spinning that week. Painted all over her. Wasn't sure she'd end up having his back. Al's maybe but there'd be some back stabbing that had to happen for her to do that. For whatever it was she thought she was accomplishing.

Coming at him from all sides right now. That's the thing with bringing on the young kids. Means you get to groom them into the kind of cops you want them to be. But sometimes that bit you in the ass too. Ended up with their own grey areas. Their own convictions and morals and justifications and codes. Codes with each other rather than them old timers. Times had changed.

Had to trust that he could trust them. He'd brought them up. And upstairs. And if it did spin out – they swayed, flipped, turned – in the wind and on Denny's whim, also had to trust it was because of what they stood for too. All good kids. Good police. And had their own things they had to stand up and fight for too. They would be trying to do right as much as he was. As Al was.

But they snapped at him. He'd bite back too. Eventually.

Life in this city – the job they did – meant you eventually had something on everyone and something to hold over everyone. Had to remember that too.

His personal phone vibrated against his ass. Again. Had been doing that a lot. Could see E had been calling him in the morning. But no call from the school – so knew it could wait. Had seen texts ping in from the kid and from Erin. And just fucking stopped looking. Didn't need that today.

Whole lot of real life going on that didn't include – couldn't include – his kids. They were just going to have to deal. For now. Now so it didn't turn into fucking 'from now on'.

But that time there'd been a series of pings. The little buzzes of incoming texts against his ass. A bunch one after the other the whole drive over and as they got all established in their spots.

"Sarge," Upton said next to him.

Sitting in that seat that usually got reserved for Al. Seat that had been reserved for his girl if Al didn't want it for a few years there. And didn't feel too right her sitting there now. But there she was. Giving him all kinds of looks that week too. She'd been another one he'd thought might be a liability in all this. Kind of cop they needed in Intelligence these days. Appearances with the Ivory Tower. Didn't always agree with her but times he did. Though wasn't sure she was the kind of cop he needed right now. Not with the kind of higher morals she kept. The pedestal she'd built for herself in trying to stay in the White Shirts' graces. Thought Trudy had done some this past year to keep her in line. For her to understand how – if not the Chicago Police worked anymore, just how the fuck the 21st and Intelligent did. How he did. How she should. And that was keeping her mouth shut. About a whole lot. And right now too. Because her voice was sounding like about as much as the pain-in-the-ass buzz that was vibrating in his ass.

"This Olinsky thing," her voice just kept buzzing. Nails on a chalkboard at this point. "I can't imagine how hard it must be."

He gave her a glance too. This girl definitely didn't know when to shut up and the place she was meant to stand in – sit in. But that had been from the get. Let her on the team anyway. Just like Halstead and Ruzek and Burgess. Reasons he shouldn't have and reasons he did. And now all that reasoning was being put to the test. Maybe more it was testing him.

Falling off your own kids' pedestal is one thing. He knew that feeling. Was feeling it happening again with Magoo. But coming to the realization lately anymore that despite any of their misgivings and head-butting all these kids he worked with had hoisted him up onto some kind of pedestal too. One that he could feel himself teetering real good in getting ready to take a hard tumble from it.

He was doing what Al told him to do. For his family. For Magoo. For his grandbabies. To save them both. Doing what should … work. What made sense for the way the real Chicago they used to exist in should operate. But really didn't know anymore. Following the code. Starting to feel like ancient history. And having any kind of follow through – to live up to all these expectations these kids around you had created for you despite who you were and what they'd seen, how they saw you and through you anyway to the person you were underneath and the man and cop you wanted to be and wanted them to be and live up to too. Well, that was turning into a whole other story.

This was Alvin. Not just a friend. A brother. Family. A good fucking man. Better than him in a lot of ways despite his own failings too.

So he just sighed at Upton. Sighed hard. Hissed it out. Because he really needed her to shut up. To not lay it on thicker. He felt it enough. Didn't need her to add to it.

"So if you need something," she buzzed in his ear again.

Again as his phone fucking blew up. Vibrating all the fuck over the place as it rang against his ass that time.

Really fucking sighed at that, lifting his ass check to retrieve it and looking at her.

"I just need you to do your job, Hailey," he graveled. "That's all." And wasn't looking at her anymore. Looking at the phone. Magoo. "What?" he barked into it, his eyes going back out the windshield to watch. Worse fucking time. His kids and their fucking timing.

Kid's voice was all over the place.

"Yea. I can see the two of you have been working on blowing up my phone," he grunted. "This numbers for emergencies. So you can't fucking be doing that."

And there he went again. Hailey there giving him side-eye. Thinking she could eavesdrop and keep an eye on this op. Neither of them should be doing that. All eyes needed to be forward right now. Didn't need this distraction.

"Jay's a little tied up, Ethan," he rasped. "Can tell her he should be home by dinner."

His eyes drifted back to the rear view. Lifted up his radio.

"Our license is arriving," he graveled there. "Wait for my signal."

And back to his phone – his son. "E. Got to go now."

But then the panic spiked in his ear. Words he didn't want to hear. Didn't need to fucking hear. Not right now. Because not only did the world just keep turning around with the sun coming up each and every morning whether you opened your eyes to see it or not – sure enough when it rained, it also poured.

"How long's she been in there?" he asked – eyes front. He needed to get off the phone. But also couldn't. Had too many situations he needed to get out of and get to. And one fucking one he needed to get Jay out of to get to another too.

He grunted at his son's staggered response.

"What'd she say before going in?"

And more babbling. Eyes forward. Watching this unfold. Eyes on Jay. Least he wasn't distracted. Head there. Head where it needed to be.

Unlike his. Let all this pile up. Spill over. And now it was all tipping over at once.

"And how'd she seem? At lunch? In the museum?"

Like he could really expect a fucking fourteen-year-old boy to have made any kind of real observations that went beyond his own nose. But E surprised him. E did that a lot. He had an answer. More staggered and panicked. Kind of contradictory. But an answer.

She'd seemed okay. She looked distracted. She kept touching at the babies and holding at her back. That she hadn't eaten much. That she looked uncomfortable. That she wanted to sit down a lot. That she went to the bathroom quick. Hadn't come out. That E thought something was wrong.

Could be nothing. Could be something. Could be a whole lot of something from the gleaning he was getting from the kid. From the glance at the phone to see the texts from Erin. All but the first couple letting him know that she was pulling E out of school for the afternoon – they all were asking him to let Jay know she needed him to get in touch ASAP. Asking if he'd been able to touch base with Jay.

He should've been checking that buzzing pain in the ass more regularly. She should've fucking called his work phone. The bullpen phone. The desk phone. Trudy. Kim. Someone.

She hadn't. For if she had – they'd all be focused elsewhere that day. Here on this. Out there on Al.

And here their life – his life, his family – was spinning and unfolding in front of him. Again all while he wasn't looking. While he should've been looking. So he didn't miss it. Miss the signs. Just like he'd missed the signs so many fucking times before. Signs that should've helped him avoid getting into all the different layers of this fucking mess.

"Okay, E," he rasped. "Me and Jay, neither of us, can come get you right now. So what you're going to do is get off the phone. Call an ambulance for your sister."

And there was that panic again.

"Ethan," he barked. "Erin's not driving. You're going to call dispatch. You're going to get a bus to head over there. You're going to haul ass over to the medic station and have someone go into the john and check on her. And you're going to stay with your sister until Jay can get over to the hospital."

Upton was still watching. Still eavesdropping. But still running the op.

"Sarge, we've got a blue van approaching," she to near whispered into his free ear.

He looked up into the rearview again. There it was.

"Hold on," he gave E, who was still in a fucking panicked motor in his ear. Anxiety and stress that might push him over an edge again. That his central nervous system wasn't set up to cope with anymore. Need him to calm down. Needed him to be there for his sister right now – like all those times she'd been there for him. But had to take the phone away from his ear for a moment – from that noise - and raise up the radio.

"Van is approaching," he said into it. "Blue. We wait for it to park. Move in on my signal."

And the phone returned to his ear. "Ethan," he pressed. "You need to take a couple deep breaths and then just do this. Call 911. Get the museum medic. Check on your sister."

And then it was all blowing up in front of him. Gun out. Jay in the fucking middle of it. When he was really about to be in the fucking middle of it soon. Didn't need a gun in the mix right that instant. But there it was.

"We've got a gun," Ruzek was rattling through the radio in his own steady urgency. "Gun, gun, gun."

"Move in," Hank ordered into the radio. "Now."

Hand headed to the clutch, foot to the pedal. And final barked demand to his son.

"Ethan," he ordered even harder than he did to these kids – cops – on the job. "You've got to listen to me. Do as your told. We'll be there soon. I promise."

And even though he heard more panicked tones coming out of his boy's mouth – he couldn't listen anymore. He hung up. He dropped the phone. And he hit the gas.

Didn't matter what kind of shitty clunker life had them in – him in – right now. Time to move. Quick. He had a job to do – to act on – on every front. It was real now. Here now. Action time.

 **AUTHOR NOTE:**

 **Post a scene in Spring Forward today too. This is sort of a continuation of it. This will likely be cross-posted over to tSpring Forward tomorrow.**

 **Trying to keep chapters shorter and either more action focused or dialogue heavy right now to move things along a bit.**

 **The next couple chapters might end up being cross posted. I might want to do another one inspired by on this episode, recasting it.**


End file.
